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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27568729">Cooperative Gameplay</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/grayola/pseuds/grayola'>grayola</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Shameless (US)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Celebrity/Groupie to Friends with Benefits to Lovers, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, Family Dynamics, Fandom Culture, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Slow Burn, Social Media, Texting, YouTuber Mickey</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 03:42:50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>211,431</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27568729</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/grayola/pseuds/grayola</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>At nineteen years old, Ian Gallagher’s stuck. Stuck in a minimum-wage job he hates. Stuck in the same boring routine--sleep, wake, work, <i>take your meds, Ian!</i>, try not to lose it day after day after day. But after his little brother introduces him to MICK MILK, a frustratingly hot horror gamer he watches on YouTube, Ian's life will never be the same. ♥️</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1002</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1710</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The World is a Vampire</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hello and welcome to my new fic! I’m so excited about it, and I hope you’ll enjoy.</p>
<p>A couple notes before we begin:<br/>-<a href="https://i.ibb.co/LSRCmn9/iancg.jpg">Here</a> are some pictures depicting Ian’s physical appearance in this fic. He’s basically beginning of season six Ian, both in appearance and feelings about himself. There are some pictures of Mickey throughout.<br/>-I’ve added about four years to Liam’s age to make him 9 when Ian is 19. Debbie and Carl are still ~14 and 13, respectively.</p>
<p>That said, here we go. &lt;33</p>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Not only is he a 19-year-old guy with a fanboy crush on a celebrity YouTuber, but said celebrity YouTuber thinks he’s an idiot.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><b>Content Warnings for Chapter 1:</b> brief depiction of post-diagnosis depression, casual use of the f-slur by a closeted gay character that is taken as homophobic by others, gets a bit meta re: fandom dynamics and celebrity cancellation, Ian's very much working under the impression that fandom is for teenage girls so some of the language reflects that</p><p>As you read, please click the links to see visuals I've created for many of the social media posts mentioned in the text. If you are visually impaired, no worries! Everything is satisfactorily described in the text itself and being able to see the visuals is in no way a requirement. Same with the music for the hearing impaired. I will always mention and describe relevant lyrics in the text itself so that everyone can enjoy. &lt;33</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Patsy’s Pies is never going to work out for him.</p>
<p>Not that <a href="https://i.ibb.co/BBQNCk6/iancg1.jpg">Ian</a> <i>wants</i> to wash dishes, bus tables, and take orders from occasionally belligerent customers for the rest of his likely statistically shortened life. Fuck no. But just about from the moment he started, after Fiona had ushered him into the job six months after he left the Cook County psych ward at seventeen, he’d known it was going to be nothing but time spent circling the drain.</p>
<p>And what a slow circle it’s been. A year of broken dishes and spilled orange juice and early hours staring vacantly at Mr. Sullivan, who comes in every morning for coffee and a slice of cherry pie.</p>
<p>He still lives at home, helps Fiona with chores and kids while Lip’s away at Chicago Polytechnic, and contributes $800 to the squirrel fund each month.</p>
<p>When he was a dumb kid, he’d wanted to join the military--to become an officer. As sick as it makes him, Ian still finds himself subtracting his current paycheck from the amount of money he <i>could</i> be making and stewing over the difference. </p>
<p>He knows he’s just a teenager. Fiona still kisses his head and calls him her kid brother. But coming home from work at 9 PM with skin peeling off his hands, aching feet, and food stains on his T-shirt isn’t exactly the life he’d imagined he’d have at his age. For starters, he’d hoped to be at West Point. Then there was the fantasy of being all buff and in a crisp gray uniform and having a hot cadet boyfriend to fuck. No, no, and no.</p>
<p>He’d gotten skinny after his diagnosis, had stopped working out, and somehow completely bucked the notion that lithium makes you gain weight. Throw in the fact that he’s pale and ginger and, well, he looks a little dead sometimes. He <i>feels</i> a little dead sometimes.</p>
<p>Far from Mr. Muscled Military Guy, he thinks, staring at himself in the bathroom mirror. He’s just home from work, dressed in his gray Patsy’s shirt and sporting the worst variety of dark circles beneath his eyes like a goddamned consumptive Victorian child.</p>
<p>Pulling open the bathroom door, Ian heads to the kitchen in hunt of the KFC bucket. Upon finding it crammed awkwardly onto one of the shelves in the fridge, he grabs a breast and a drumstick, lays them out on a styrofoam plate, and then digs back around in the fridge for a bottle of Old Style.</p>
<p>There’s laughter coming from the living room. Liam’s. Someone else’s. And beneath the chortles of nine-year-olds is the tinny audio of someone swearing profusely.</p>
<p>“Fucking <i>fuck</i>,” the voice says, and Not Liam snorts and then lightly repeats, “Fuck!” in a gentle tone of voice like he’s being scandalous. Ian smirks and bumps the fridge closed with his hip. </p>
<p>Chewing a bite of the chicken drumstick, Ian saunters into the living room to find Liam and his friend from school--Jacob? Jordan? J-something--watching a video on Liam’s phone.</p>
<p>“Whatcha doin’, punk?” Ian asks, sitting down beside his brother and leaning over to peer at the screen.</p>
<p>“Watching a YouTuber.” Liam lowers the volume and backs up the video a minute or two, holding his phone out so Ian can see. “His name’s MICK MILK, and he plays these scary video games.”</p>
<p>Ian sets down his plate and beer on the coffee table and takes the phone in hand, pressing play on the video.</p>
<p>The player--a dark-haired guy in a tiny square in the bottom left corner of the screen--controls a blond character who’s walking down a dark hallway holding a rifle. </p>
<p>The character slowly creeps along, the darkness only illuminated in spotlit circles from what appears to be a weak flashlight. Ominous instrumental music hums in the background, and the player--MICK MILK--murmurs as if to himself, “Where aaare youuuu, <i>fucker</i>?”</p>
<p>At that, Liam and his friend laugh. Ian raises an eyebrow and continues to watch as the character moves forward a foot, then another, and another, and all of a sudden, along with a crescendo of strings, a realistic, groaning, blood-covered zombie leaps from the shadows and grabs him.</p>
<p>Ian practically jumps out of his skin, his heart rate kicking up and limbs going adrenaline-weak.</p>
<p>“Shit!” he yells, mouth breaking into a grin as the kids to his right point and laugh at him, Jacob holding his belly and leaning backward into the couch cushions, all full of genuine glee that only a kid can have.</p>
<p>“Ah ha, you got me,” Ian frets, playing it up, enjoying the innocent little burst of happiness in the living room. “You like watching this?”</p>
<p>Liam nods and reaches over to back up the video a few seconds to the part Ian had missed due to his frightened outburst. “It’s funny ‘cause Mick does these faces, see?”</p>
<p>The jumpscare plays again, and it’s not nearly as alarming this time. In fact, it seems pretty predictable. Ian bites his lip and watches as the game pauses and the tiny face-cam box expands to full-screen. </p>
<p>Mick looks about Ian’s age. He has dark hair in a mid-fade that’s a fluffy flop on top, and he’s dressed in a <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/095ec4dde6f47a9f7983a953653b77ea/c887b97b8ba9826b-e5/s400x600/6e1f84f4e6fcd8a4fd6dd3562f97426f4d537b6c.jpg">slim-fit floral short-sleeved button-down</a>. In his earlobes are flat black studs the size of pencil erasers, and he has weirdly perfect eyebrows to such a degree that they would look groomed if it weren’t for the stray hairs visible beneath the arch.</p>
<p>He’s cute.</p>
<p>Ian watches as Mick makes a dead-eyed, dramatically unimpressed face that sends the kids once more into stitches.</p>
<p>“He <i>never</i> jumps at jumpscares,” Jacob says excitedly, tossing his messy, mousy-brown hair out of his eyes. His front teeth look too big in his mouth, and when he says <i>scares</i>, he presses his tongue to the edge of them in a lisp at the <i>s</i> sound. “He’s <i>thtone cold</i>! And he’s from Chicago!”</p>
<p>“He is, huh?” Ian smiles at the boys and taps play on the phone to watch a little more. </p>
<p>The full-screen face-cam shrinks away back to the bottom corner, and Mick deftly fights off the zombie, ending with a sickening <i>crunch</i> as the character stomps his boot through the zombie’s face, spewing blood and brains.</p>
<p>“Fucking <i>fuck</i>,” Mick exclaims, and Ian wanders his eyes down to watch him take a slurp off a charcoal gray coffee mug featuring the image of a milk carton labeled FUCK U-UP. He’s got tattoos on his knuckles, and his thumbnail only is partially painted with severely chipped black nailpolish. He swallows in an inelegant gulp and continues with, “Zombie-ass motherfucker. How much ya wanna bet he’s got his buds on the other side of that door?”</p>
<p>Mick sets down the coffee mug and picks up the controller again, moving the character in the direction of a wooden door at the end of the hallway. “Just <i>look</i> at that fuckin’ door. Shit ain’t subtle. SneakAttack Games, you owe me fifty bucks for bein’ so fuckin’ obvious.”</p>
<p>He walks the character up to the door, and the moment the blond guy reaches for the doorknob, a cut-scene begins that’s startling enough that Ian jerks his foot.</p>
<p>The face-cam box takes over the screen again, and Mick sighs dramatically and points a finger-gun. “What’d I tell ya? Christ.”</p>
<p>“What do his knuckles say?” Ian asks, handing the phone back to Liam.</p>
<p>“F U-UP. It’s kinda his thing. He has T-shirts and stuff that say it.”</p>
<p>Huh. Ian picks back up his beer and resumes eating his chicken as the kids watch the rest of the video, MICK MILK’s comically irritated voice and the giggles of little boys acting as the happy soundtrack to his meal.</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>It’s not that he becomes <i>obsessed</i> with MICK MILK. It’s that he’s bored, and he’s lonely, and watching a cute guy make annoyed faces and crack wry jokes about horror games occupies Ian’s time in a way nothing else does.</p>
<p>He’s lying in bed one morning after the kids have gone to school and before Fiona’s come to yell for him to get up for work. He plugs his earbuds into his phone and does a YouTube search for <i>mick milk</i>.</p>
<p>His channel’s called <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/5a69dd464a6c59a4d89abcdab8ae44aa/dce28a1ef9abf8e7-7f/s2048x3072/b404ded98a6addc44e1d9617699b24978ae1f4fe.jpg">Nightmare Hour</a>, and he has videos dating back to 2016, all various horror-themed games split into hour-long increments in videos called things like <b>WTF JUST HAPPENED??</b> and <b>ZOMBIE GUTS</b>. </p>
<p>Curious, Ian clicks on a video called <b>PARTY LIKE PORN STARS, Until Dawn pt 1</b>, and snuggles down into his star-print blanket to watch.</p>
<p>The video begins with a black screen and the milk carton logo. <i>The world is a vampire</i> from The Smashing Pumpkins’ <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xCmA1uC0r9A">“Bullet with Butterfly Wings”</a> plays and then slowly fades out after <i>sent to drain</i>, the logo screen dissolving into a video game menu and Mick in the bottom corner sporting a pair of expensive-looking white headphones. He’s wearing a <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/de6b571c52a00dca8877e8099fb6dd5c/efc8642179f31dfb-90/s2048x3072/fc5e16d781a48ce00fd41dfc00b746dcbfed12ee.jpg">cheetah-pattern short-sleeved shirt</a> buttoned all the way to the collar, and a lock of the fluffy bit of his hair is <a href="https://i.ibb.co/L95VBKX/mickhair1.jpg">hanging over his forehead</a>. </p>
<p>“Waaaassup,” he says in a bored tone of voice, fidgeting a little with the gray camo PlayStation controller in his hands. “Today we’re gonna play something I already played on my channel like three years ago. You can go back and look for it if you want, but don’t. It fuckin’ sucks ass and I look like I’m four.” </p>
<p>His eyes trail away from the viewer, and the corner of his mouth quirks up for just a second before dropping back down as if it never happened. “I don’t remember if I liked the game or not, but I’m bored and nothin’ good’s out right now, so I figured I’d give it another shot.”</p>
<p>Ian smiles to himself as he watches Mick talk through the controls and gameplay settings, his bored tone fading out and a nerdy excitement seeping into his speech.</p>
<p>Mick starts up the game, and Ian watches him play for twenty minutes, getting just as engrossed in the way the guy repeatedly says <i>fuck</i>, his white teeth pressing into his bottom lip, as he does in the game itself.</p>
<p>“Up and at ‘em, Sweetface,” Fiona calls from the top of the stairs, and Ian groans and pulls the covers over his head, cocooning himself in with Mick, who’s controlling a video game rendering of Hayden Panettiere. </p>
<p>Over the course of a week, Ian watches the entirety of Mick’s Let’s Play of <i>Until Dawn</i> and begins the first two installments of <i>Resident Evil 2</i>. He watches mostly on the L ride to and from work and at night while in bed after Carl and Liam fall asleep.</p>
<p>It’s hard to pin down what Ian likes so much about him--what makes his videos so addicting--but the guy does have 14 million subscribers on YouTube. Whatever it is apparently isn’t a personal thing. </p>
<p>Mick’s abrasive and acts so utterly annoyed by the clichés that seem to wiggle their way into nearly every horror game. He spends much of the Let’s Plays complaining about predictability and flaws but is never shy about complimenting the game designers when he feels it’s deserved, wandering onto geeky tangents about graphics and storylines and character development that make Ian feel like he’s watching a university lecture by a hot, foul-mouthed professor.</p>
<p>Mick’s smart, and though a portion of his subscribers seem to be pre-teens--if only because of his viral no-nonsense approach to jumpscares--casual scans through the thousands of comments left on his videos reveal a wide and varied audience, viewers leaving a mixture of gut reactions, slightly sexual comments about his appearance, complaints about his gaming style, and intelligent discussion launching off of Mick’s own commentary.</p>
<p>Though Ian feels awkward about <i>how much</i> he watches Nightmare Hour, he doesn’t feel awkward about watching it in general. In fact, it makes him want to boot up the old, likely stolen Xbox in the Gallagher living room and play games he hasn’t attempted since he was fifteen.</p>
<p>He registers for a Google account so he can subscribe and like as Mick suggests at the end of each video, and he downloads the YouTube app onto his phone and sets alerts for all of Mick’s new uploads.</p>
<p>It’s fun, and it passes the time, and it makes Ian feel productive because he’s learning about game strategy and design and slowly getting involved and interested in a community.</p>
<p>One night, when he’s taken the rare shift off from work and is attempting to distract himself from Debbie talking about her period at the kitchen table, he searches up MICK MILK’s Wikipedia page.</p>
<p>To say that it’s sparse is an understatement. </p>
<p>Aside from that his real name is <a href="https://i.ibb.co/R0GFvdv/mickwiki1.jpg">Mikhailo A. Milkovich</a>, he’s twenty years old, Chicago-born but currently lives in LA, Ian learns basically nothing about the guy aside from the fact that he’s <i><a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/9fa76da65b5fccf80356b79f1a4c3b9a/16df55d4cf93b8c4-c8/s2048x3072/af9ce044b54ec053b60e915d0ac4adb1e479ad12.jpg">known</a> for maintaining a guarded personal life and refusing to answer interview questions that reference his life prior to the start of his YouTube career</i>. </p>
<p>In bed that night, Ian searches him up on YouTube and watches all the interviews he can find, which aren’t many. In them, Mick’s his usual grouchy, sarcastic self but not to the detriment of his character. Like how he appears during his Let’s Plays, his attitude doesn’t come across as demeaning or off-putting but endearing somehow, like it’s a perfectly reasonable thing to want him to yell at you.</p>
<p>He smiles enough to soften any blows he deals, and his grins are face-scrunching and precious and don’t look at all out of place on such a grumpy person. He always thanks the interviewer at the end and gives them a polite handshake, and though Ian learns basically nothing new about Mick’s life from these videos, he feels like he learns a hell of a lot about his personality.</p>
<p>After the interviews, Ian moves on to perusing a few of the <b>Best of</b> compilation videos spliced together by fans. His favorite is the <b>Best of Mick Being Done with Life</b> compilation, which is a nearly five minute video of the guy looking entirely unimpressed by various jumpscares with <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Twi92KYddW4">Wii music</a> playing overtop. </p>
<p>Strangely, there’s also a <b>Best of IBIATCL</b> compilation in which people of all ages and genders are dancing or otherwise headbanging to <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E1i34e0sDt8">“I Believe in a Thing Called Love”</a> by The Darkness, the top bar across the video indicating that they’re all part of Mick’s Twitch streams.</p>
<p>Ian’s confused about that one until he sees a related video linked in the sidebar called <b>IBIATCL ORIGINAL MICK MILK</b>. It’s of a gaming break countdown screen on one of his streams, and in the bottom corner, clearly having no clue his video’s still on, Mick is spinning in his chair and lightly headbanging to the song, at one point even picking up a pair of drumsticks from outside the range of the camera and drumming on the desk in front of him.</p>
<p>About halfway through the song, he stops and abruptly cuts his camera. When he comes back, he looks absolutely murderous and endearingly red-faced and embarrassed. He says, “Are you guys fuckin’ kiddin’ me right now?” and drops his head dramatically down on the desk.</p>
<p>Ian watches the video no less than five times in a row and even adds “I Believe in a Thing Called Love” to his Spotify playlist. He thinks it’s the cutest fucking thing he’s ever seen, and it makes his stomach hurt with butterflies.</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>Shit, why’s he gotta develop a crush on the guy?</p>
<p>He was feeling good about watching his videos for the longest time--feeling like a fuckin’ intellectual or something in his head. He was even bonding with his little brother over it, the two of them sitting on the couch sometimes after Ian got home from work and watching Mick’s latest Let’s Play together.</p>
<p>Now Ian’s gotta go off and think Mick’s not only cute but more than that--that he’s this grumpy little guy he wants to hold just a bit--and it’s thrown a wrench in his plans to just watch Gaming YouTube to pass the time while he waits for his life to change. It’s fucking inconvenient. </p>
<p>Ian has to watch his live streams now, bringing his earbuds to work and sometimes tuning in on weeknights when business is slow and he can sit at a booth and take out his phone.</p>
<p>The live streams give him a whole new list of songs to add to his Spotify playlist. At the start of every stream, Mick puts on a ten minute countdown clock and plays, in the same order each time, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8PG5oTnDpXA">“Monkey Wrench”</a> by Foo Fighters, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zuuyR7vrL6M">“Party Hard”</a> by Andrew W.K., <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L2IYUehYj0I">“99 Red Balloons”</a> covered by Goldfinger, and “Bullet with Butterfly Wings.” </p>
<p>He always turns his video on after <i>the world is a vampire</i> and inattentively drinks his coffee in a merch mug or tumbler until the song finishes and he can give his bored “Waaaassup.”</p>
<p>Then, halfway through his stream, he takes a break and plays a video sent to him by a random subscriber of them dancing to “I Believe in a Thing Called Love.” He also always plays Beyoncé’s <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n0R5uUEjjCk">“Love on Top,”</a> as well as <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fiu9h8ZTPoQ">“No Diggity”</a> by Blackstreet, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K3BD6NQCGrA">“Livin’ On a Prayer”</a> by Bon Jovi, and <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YSAqXEcgoZ4">“Boys Don’t Cry”</a> by The Cure. </p>
<p>He turns his video on halfway through “Boys Don’t Cry” and drums his fingers to the beat for a minute before starting back up the game.</p>
<p>See, the live stream thing sucks for Ian because if he misses it, he’s missed it forever, as Mick rarely saves the videos on Twitch or uploads them to YouTube. And he’s <i>embarrassed</i> now that he’s watching this shit all the time. </p>
<p>One night while he’s watching, Fiona comes up to him during his break and rubs the back of his neck, leaning down to see what he’s doing.</p>
<p>“Whatcha watchin’?” she asks sweetly, and Ian can’t decide whether to be annoyed that she’s touching him like he’s a kid in the way she’s done since his diagnosis or embarrassed that he’s watching a celebrity YouTuber play one of the old <i>Silent Hill</i> games on a streaming site.</p>
<p>He mumbles “None of your business” in peak teenage irritation and gets up to head back to the kitchen, pocketing his phone and hoping Mick doesn’t do anything cute until the end of his shift.</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>During his live streams, Mick frequently references Twitter, saying he “read on Twitter that…” or he “made a Twitter post about…” Ian hasn’t used Twitter in years, but he manages to get back into his old account under a goofy, military-related handle.</p>
<p>He searches up Mick and finds <a href="https://i.ibb.co/VmHmBRV/micktwitter1.jpg">his account</a>, which was created in 2016 and has thousands of tweets. There’s an automatic post whenever he uploads a new video to his channel, but he also retweets gamer-related articles, writes not-so-kind things to game developers he thinks have dropped the ball, and sends along genuine compliments to devs he thinks have done shit right.</p>
<p>Occasionally, he’ll engage his followers a bit, asking them questions about their favorite games, their opinions on plot points, and sometimes even about things like horror movies and music. Ian follows him, then follows a couple suggested MICK MILK related accounts that pop up, which leads him down a goddamned rabbit hole.</p>
<p>By the time he’s finished with his foray into Twitter for the day, he’s followed thirty-plus MICK accounts, including several self-proclaimed “stans,” which he has to look up in Urban Dictionary.</p>
<p>And well, these accounts are something else. They all call him “Mickey” as if he doesn’t even go by “Mick,” and every so often they post 15-30 second videos of spliced together clips of him matched up to the beats of various synth-heavy pop songs. </p>
<p>Ian reads his timeline until he feels like a middle schooler with a crush and then goes to take a shower.</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>Though he’s a bit overwhelmed by Twitter and feels like he doesn’t fit in demographically, it does allow him to catch the link Mick--Mickey?--tweets one day soon after Ian’s nineteenth birthday.</p>
<p>Monster Energy and SneakAttack--creators of the games featured in some of Mick(ey)’s most popular Let’s Plays--are sponsoring a contest drawing for an opportunity to have a private, cooperative gaming session with MICK MILK. Three cities--New York, Chicago, and LA--and three winners. Winners must pay their own travel but will be treated to a free one-night stay in a luxury hotel, plus a free meal with Mickey and various prize packs from the sponsors.</p>
<p>Ian clicks the link and only thinks about it for a minute or two before he fills out and submits his information for the Chicago contest. Frankly, it’d be stupid of him <i>not</i> to do it. He wouldn’t have to worry about travel expenses in the event that he did win, and there’s no way in hell he’s turning down an opportunity to meet Mickey, even if he hasn’t played a console game in years and would be shit at the gaming session.</p>
<p>After submitting his entry, Ian likes Mickey’s tweet and types his first reply: <i>Done.</i> 😎</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>In addition to game-related tweets, Mickey also shares links to his Instagram posts via Twitter. </p>
<p>Instagram is another form of social media that Ian hasn’t used in a couple years. Truthfully, following his diagnosis, there’s a lot of shit he doesn’t do anymore.</p>
<p>He was never a social media guru; his old Twitter account, for example, only had nine weird retweets and a couple embarrassing, juvenile posts. He’d also been hacked at some point and had tweeted about a dozen adult singles tweets with sketchy links.</p>
<p>But while he was never involved in social media--growing up dirt poor in Southside Chicago with enough family drama to script ten seasons of a soap opera didn’t give him much impetus to spend a ton of time online--he at least had enough interest to make the occasional post. </p>
<p>Now he can’t even remember his Instagram password or the email address he used and has to create a <a href="https://i.ibb.co/4Fgnwnb/ianginsta.jpg">new account altogether</a>. </p>
<p>He takes his time with it, picking out an artsy-looking profile picture from his phone’s camera roll, then following a few family members, people he knows, and around forty celebrity and special interest accounts. Ian tops off his following spree by searching up MICK MILK.</p>
<p>His <a href="https://i.ibb.co/n7g6X7m/mickmilkig.jpg">account</a> is neatly organized and features an unusual amount of dramatic black-and-white pictures. Most of them are of him gaming, are reposted professional photos from various magazine spreads, and are geeky pictures of his tech setup, complete with thorough descriptions of his specs that make absolutely no sense to Ian.</p>
<p>His few most recent pictures are selfies with over 300,000 likes each. In one he’s wearing a burgundy Nightmare Hour beanie and a pair of tortoise-shell Clubmaster sunglasses; in another, he’s wearing a plain black beanie and smoking a cigarette, the picture captioned <i>don’t smoke, kids</i>. </p>
<p>In the most recent picture, Mickey’s standing in front of a rainbow wall mural and sticking out his tongue. He looks cute as fuck. Ian likes the picture and reads through the comments, which range from <i>mickey says gay rights</i> to <i>king shit</i> to <i>Are you gay???</i> 😞</p>
<p>And if Ian spends several minutes Googling “mick milk gay” and “mick milk girlfriend,” well, whatever.</p>
<p>He doesn’t find shit, either way.</p>
<p>And it’s not like it’s of consequence to Ian in any form or fashion. He’s never going to fuck him. MICK MILK is a celebrity with a net worth of six million dollars. He may be originally from Chicago, but he lives in Los Angeles and has so many followers on his social media accounts that no matter how often Ian leaves him comments on his videos and replies to his tweets and Instagram posts, he’ll always be a grain of sand in the goddamned desert.</p>
<p>Ian knows that’s true. He’s not a kid again secretly crushing on SexyBack-era Justin Timberlake. Whether Mickey’s gay or not shouldn’t be relevant to him. But that doesn’t stop him from looking for clues, especially when a person named 👾 madz 👾  on Twitter tweets, <i>so are we still pretending mickeys straight in the year of our lord 2020? every time he plays love on top the gays keep winning 🌈</i></p>
<p>Soon after, Mickey begins a video series with a game that allows for player choices to shape the direction of the story. At the beginning, he’s given the option of having the main male character flirt with a girl or a guy, and without even commenting on it and with seemingly no hesitation, Mickey chooses the guy.</p>
<p>This leads his character down a long, romantic arc, and never once does Mickey comment on the queer story; he simply treats the game like he treats any other game he ever plays: he’s a critical grump about the quality of the horror, but he’s complimentary of the graphics and gameplay mechanics.</p>
<p>Ian reads the comments on the last installment and finds they’re mixed. The game ending--which featured a kiss between two male characters--receives nearly a 60-40 split of likes and dislikes, and many of the comments are shit like <i>I don’t mind gay people but I don’t know why you had to make this playthrough gay. It feels unnecessary and distracts from the story.</i></p>
<p>Growing up Southside, Ian’s used to homophobia, unfortunately to the point that it hardly even fazes him. He’s more lenient than he should be about casual offensive comments spoken in his presence, and he’s always been on the outskirts of everything, working in gay clubs, fucking guys when he had the drive and energy, daydreaming about having a boyfriend, but never hanging out with other gay people or thinking about things like politics and rights.</p>
<p>He is what he is, but he’s also poor, Southside trash who’s not even registered to vote, and that’s kind of how it’s always been.</p>
<p>For some reason, though, he feels as if he needs to comment on this video--something to show his appreciation for Mickey’s approach and to offset some of the shitty comments.</p>
<p>
  <i>Hey, this is the first comment I’ve ever left on a Youtube video. :) I just wanted to say that I appreciate how you treated Thierry’s story and romantic relationships, specifically how you just played him as a normal dude and let him be gay without making a big deal out of it. I live in a pretty homophobic area and I grew up hearing shit all the time about how being gay was gross or wrong. I’m gay myself and just reading some of the comments here I’m realizing how much homophobic shit I see and hear all the time, so much that I don’t even notice it anymore, and that sucks. I think if I was a kid and people made games like this and people like you played them, I would have been happier with myself and wouldn’t have internalized so much shit that’s just a part of who I am now. Thanks for treating the gay stuff in this game like it’s normal and don’t listen to the people who are leaving shitty comments about it. You made at least one person feel good with your play style, so maybe that’s worth something. ~Ian</i>
</p>
<p>He reads back through it once it’s posted. It makes him cringe, but he leaves it; Mickey probably won’t read it anyway.</p>
<p>On the way home from work the next day, he opens up the YouTube app to watch the next installment in Mickey’s current Let’s Play series. Once the app loads, he notices that he has an alert by the bell in the top right corner.</p>
<p>He figures it’s another notification that a user has replied to his comment from the night before, as he’s had a few of them already. What he isn’t expecting is to see that MICK MILK has replied.</p>
<p>His heart pounds so hard that he’s sure the other passengers can hear it, and he has to take slow, deep breaths to keep himself in check when he clicks on the notification to read the <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/1003717ac0219cf26f392e14d05995c4/11df3189c05c20aa-9e/s1280x1920/32dff7b2093082f0f6418a6aea6cc569e12a5000.jpg">reply</a>.</p>
<p>
  <i>hey thanks man. yeah, i’m just treating normal shit like normal shit, if people have a problem with it they can unsub, i don’t give a fuck. happy to hear you enjoyed. -MM</i>
</p>
<p>It’s such a simple message with very little substance and even less of an attempt at a personal connection, but Ian takes a screenshot so he can keep it forever and spends the rest of the ride home pink-cheeked and excited.</p>
<p>He casually checks Twitter when he gets home and, like he does sometimes because he might be a little bit of a crazy stalker, checks Mickey’s mentions by searching his username. He smiles when he sees someone has tweeted a screenshot of his reply to Ian’s YouTube comment and added, <i>you dropped this, king</i> 👑.</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>Ian expects his crush to go away after a while or at least to wane once he gets used to seeing a lot of Mickey online. He expects, really, for him to eventually become less of an embarrassing fanboy.</p>
<p>But somehow it’s the end of May, and he’s been watching MICK MILK videos since March, and he’s still liking what he knows now are called “fancams” on Twitter and has push notifications set up for Mickey’s tweets, YouTube videos, and Instagram posts.</p>
<p>He’s never really been a fan of anybody in his life--not more than in a casual sense--and it’s progressed to the point by now that he feels like if he even mentions Mickey to anybody, even Liam, he’s going to blush and give himself away. </p>
<p>So he stops watching MICK MILK uploads with his brother and even asks, “You’re still watchin’ that guy?” when he goes into their bedroom one night and hears the tinny sound of Mickey’s profuse swearing through the speakers of Liam’s phone.</p>
<p>That doesn’t stop him from using his brother for his own selfish, Mickey-related whims, though.</p>
<p>On June 1st, Mickey tweets and posts an Instagram story with a link to register for Gamerpalooza, a one-day gaming conference at the Marriott in downtown Chicago with a limited Let’s Play gamer guestlist and autograph sessions.</p>
<p>Ian nearly has a heart attack when he sees the tweet, and he’s surprised his phone doesn’t crash from the quickness at which he taps the link to the registration website.</p>
<p>Tickets are $40 per person to attend the basic conference sessions, but the Creator Circus add-on--involving admission into a room with the YouTuber guests at autograph booths--costs an additional $25, bringing the ticket price to sixty-five bucks a pop.</p>
<p>Ian questions just how early it’s socially acceptable to give Liam a tenth birthday present, all the while digging in his underwear drawer for the roll of cash he keeps stored for his savings--just a little left over from each paycheck.</p>
<p>He has almost $300 saved since his last purchase, and shit, maybe it’s irresponsible, and maybe it’s weird and stalkery and something he’s too old and too male to be doing, but he unrolls half the bills and shoves them in his pocket and then texts Fiona not to put him on the schedule for June 13th.</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>Liam, full of premature reserve, still manages to appear unbearably excited when Ian tells him about the conference and then proceeds to ask Ian to take Jacob, as well. </p>
<p>He can’t really afford to shell out another sixty-five bucks, but Jacob’s parents are rich as shit, and a couple weeks after an awkward conversation with an old-money trophy wife, Ian finds himself ushering two nine-year-olds through the ticket and wristband line at Gamerpalooza and into a Wicked Circus -themed wonderland.</p>
<p>There are twinkling, light-filled trees in the hallway leading to the conference area lobby, and once inside, the boys’ skin goes aglow with the pink and purple lights wrapped around the four large columns surrounded by seating in the center of the room. By the doors to the main conference hall is a twelve-foot tall, black and purple circus tent you have to pass through on your way in, and from the roof of it streams silvery bunting that criss-crosses its way, vine-like, toward the walls.</p>
<p>In every corner is a circus-themed display, from giant, black and white striped popcorn buckets with purple smoke seeping out to weird, creepy clown shit, and all along the front wall near a merch stand are cardboard cut-outs of various popular video game characters dressed in circus wear--some characters Ian recognizes from Mickey’s Let’s Plays, some Ian’s never seen in his life.</p>
<p>With his phone, he snaps a few pictures of the kids, who are so excited they’re practically vibrating, and then walks with them through the circus tent and into the main hall.</p>
<p>It’s much less impressive inside, the event planners having seemingly used up their budget on the lobby. The room is large--too large for the small amount of booths set up, causing the hall to look empty and lonely. Ian lets the kids run toward the free gear spread out on the white tables lining the walls and unfolds his information booklet.</p>
<p>There are twenty-two video game related sessions held throughout the next several hours--each rotating through different conference rooms branching off the main hall. Most of them seem interactive and like they would be fun for people who actually know shit about games. There’s presentations on, among other things, Fortnite, Animal Crossing, weapons and warfare, motion capture, and fantasy sound design; there’s a Rocket League audience-involved competition Ian knows the kids will be all over, as well as a room to play with VR and even an arcade dedicated to video games of the 80s. </p>
<p>Fine. Sure. Ian might check some of it out to pass the time.</p>
<p>But really, all he actually cares about is the 2:00 Horror Fest in Conference Hall C-7 featuring a one-hour show where he can <i>join MICK MILK of Nightmare Hour as he explores some of the greatest horror games of the past and present. No children under 18 permitted without an adult</i>.</p>
<p>Ian smiles when he examines Mickey’s <a href="https://i.ibb.co/YPdrYkS/hfad.jpg">picture</a> in the booklet--a grinning one where he’s looking down to such a degree that his eyes appear closed. He’s absolutely cute as fuck, and Ian thinks--if the personality that comes through in his Let’s Plays holds true--Mickey probably has a grumpy thing or two to say about the photo that was chosen to represent him. </p>
<p>He looks like someone you’d want to gather up and kiss.</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>The morning passes slowly. All the kids want to do is watch Fortnite and Rocket League competitions interwoven with stops by the arcade. Ian catches the weapons and warfare presentation on his own, which is actually pretty cool--an examination of weapons in video games and how the gameplay mechanics have developed over the past twenty-five years.</p>
<p>After lunch, the boys head to the virtual reality room, which is incredible. Various reps from VR tech companies are there to help them suit up in the headsets and gloves, and Ian spends nearly ten straight minutes badly playing tennis until he gets the hang of it and declares himself a pro. </p>
<p>He checks out a space simulation game and the newest Half-Life Mickey played on his channel, and he gets so engrossed that he almost tunes out Liam’s, “Ian, we’re gonna miss MICK MILK!”</p>
<p>Hell no they’re not. Ian gets off the headset and gloves and quickly ushers the kids to Conference Hall C-7.</p>
<p>It’s packed to the gills--easily the most popular session of the day--and Ian and the kids can only manage three seats near each other toward the back. He’s unfairly pissed they couldn’t get closer--shit, he’d even take front row like the nerdiest of nerds--and he thinks he’d jump out a window in frustration if he weren’t feeling lightheaded with nervous excitement.</p>
<p>Liam and Jacob--the two of the three who <i>should</i> be excited--are seemingly bored with the wait for it to start and are flipping through pictures from the day on Liam’s phone. Ian taps his foot anxiously against the gray, carpeted floor and scans the right wing off the stage for any sign of life.</p>
<p>He thinks he might throw up when the lights dim to hoots and hollers from the audience. The large screen to the left of the stage that’s been running a MICK MILK highlight reel goes black, and Ian holds his breath.</p>
<p>In a quick flash, there’s suddenly a beeping countdown to five</p>
<p>four </p>
<p>three</p>
<p>two</p>
<p>one--</p>
<p><i>The world is a vampire</i>.</p>
<p>The crowd goes batshit. Ian thinks he might pass out.</p>
<p>And okay, maybe the event planners spent the rest of their budget on MICK MILK’s show because the music is loud enough that Ian feels it in the pit of his stomach. The FUCK U-UP milk carton logo is now projected on the ceiling and the lights are flashing off and on in beat with the Smashing Pumpkins song and, well, shit. </p>
<p>Ian’s two seconds away from screaming along with the rest of the audience, and he might, he <i>still might</i>. He leans his head back and brings his hands up to cup around the sides of his mouth and is about to do it--he’s about to do it--</p>
<p>when the lights cut. The music cuts. </p>
<p>The hall is in perfect darkness, the silence only broken by occasional, high-pitched yells from the audience.</p>
<p>Ian swallows and brings his hands back to his lap. He hears Jacob and Liam snickering in nine-year-old excitement and then--</p>
<p>Fuck.</p>
<p>Out of the darkness comes an endearingly awkward, perpetually, preciously bored, “Waaaassup.”</p>
<p>Ian leans over and rests his elbows on his knees, rubbing his sweaty palms across his cheeks as the crowd around him goes nuts with screams.</p>
<p>And when the lights come up, the screams grow even louder.</p>
<p>MICK MILK--no, fucking Mick, fucking <i>Mickey</i>--is there, sitting in a high-backed chair behind a gaming station on wheels.</p>
<p>Because he’s so far back in the audience, Ian has to watch him projected on the closed-captioning screen to the right of the stage.</p>
<p>He’s dressed in a <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/7ad174fbf8f1ae80fbabe0ba1d26a1f5/4ccb7b4c1413bd62-53/s540x810/192fd529d9188df4116c5f15feab64dc35d9e400.jpg">black, electric pink and blue floral-print shirt</a> buttoned up to the collar and black skinny jeans tucked into black Timbs. On his head is a black beanie, which he removes and sets down on the desk in front of him, using his fingers to brush through his hair self-consciously.</p>
<p>“Hey,” he says again into the microphone mounted to his right. </p>
<p>The crowd screams, and Mickey makes a grumbly noise that sounds staticky and deep and that turns Ian on so completely that he feels his cheeks growing hot with it.</p>
<p>“Will ya shut the fuck up and lemme talk?” Mickey reprimands, and that just makes the crowd burst into laughter. At that, he shakes his head, and there’s the tiniest smile pulling at his lips in such a way that Ian knows this shit’s all an act. </p>
<p>“Jesus fuck,” Mickey grouses. “Chill your tits and let’s get this show on the road.”</p>
<p>And with one final and extended <i>wooooo</i> from the audience, Mickey grabs up the white PlayStation controller from the desk in front of him and signals for the tech guys to start up the first game.</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>Ian’s enraptured.</p>
<p>He’s always <i>liked</i> video games, though he wasn’t able to play them very often--usually only when a decent gaming system had <i>fallen off the back of a truck</i> and was in their home for a few short weeks until it was sold for cash to pay the water bill or until Frank’d pawned it for booze money.</p>
<p>There’s the ancient Xbox from God knows where they’ve managed to hold on to for a few years--the system sticker-covered and cracked and too roughed up to sell--but Ian hasn’t played since he was diagnosed.</p>
<p>But watching MICK MILK play is like watching the most exciting movie Ian can imagine. And more than that, <i>listening</i> to him talk about tech specs and the science of horror and why Pyramid Head from <i>Silent Hill 2</i> is one of the greatest video game monsters ever is so captivating, Mickey’s voice even and warm with just the littlest underlying thread of excitement, that Ian can hardly look away from him.</p>
<p>He’s <i>lulled</i> by him. Fascinated. Ian watches Mickey play small bits of <i>Silent Hill 2</i>, <i>The Last of Us</i>, <i>Outlast</i>, <i>Resident Evil 2</i>, and <i>Amnesia</i>, and he listens to him discuss what works and what doesn’t and why horror games are incredible ways of exploring feelings of guilt, hatred, and fear.</p>
<p>“It’s cheesy as fuck to say, y’know, but they’re more than dumb fuckin’ jumpscares and shit. When they’re done right, they’re stories about the darkness inside us, and that’s really fuckin’ cool.”</p>
<p>Ian watches Mickey’s face gather a bit to the left in what looks like a hint of shyness. Watches him sniff and then rub his itchy nose with the back of his wrist. </p>
<p>He wants to know this guy.</p>
<p>Ian blows out a breath and crosses his arms over his chest.</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>When the show’s over, Mickey says, “I’m signin’ stuff later, I guess, so…” He shrugs and shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans, and Ian watches over the screen as he quirks his mouth in a smirk. “Buy my shit and maybe I’ll put my name on it.”</p>
<p>The crowd laughs, and Mickey raises a hand in a wave, grabs his beanie, and unceremoniously heads off the stage.</p>
<p>“Can we buy his merch, Ian?” Jacob asks, standing up from his seat and wandering over to pat Ian obnoxiously on the hip. “Please, please, please, please, please?”</p>
<p>Ian levels him with a stare. “You got any money?”</p>
<p>“Mom gave me a hundred dollars.”</p>
<p>“Well shit, you can buy us all some merch.”</p>
<p>Liam puts his arm around his friend, and Ian follows them to the back of the conference hall to where there are booths with overpriced MICK MILK merchandise--T-shirts, hoodies, beanies, tumblers, and coffee mugs. Ian helps Jacob buy a shirt and beanie, and he shells out some of his own leftover cash for Liam’s T-shirt because he isn’t <i>actually</i> going to take some kid’s rich mom’s money.</p>
<p>He considers buying a tumbler or something for himself but decides against it when he looks around and realizes that the vast majority of people crowded around the merch booths are between the ages of twelve and sixteen and are overwhelmingly female.</p>
<p>Feeling awkward and just a little bit creepy, Ian places his hands on Liam’s shoulders and steers him and Jacob out of the crowd and back toward the doors.</p>
<p>They take pictures out in the main lobby with the circus decorations and then get in line for the Creator Circus when the doors open at four.</p>
<p>The closer and closer Ian gets to the entrance, the more and more his stomach hurts.</p>
<p>He’s about to see and maybe even talk to MICK MILK, Mick, Mickey. </p>
<p>Liam and Jacob are getting their T-shirts signed and Ian’s playing big brother, and maybe Mickey’ll find the kids cute. Maybe he’ll find them cute enough to comment about them to Ian, probably assuming Jacob’s his brother instead of Liam, and then Ian’ll get to explain the situation, and maybe Mickey will smile at him and ask if he has anything he wants him to sign. Maybe he’ll bend his perfect eyebrows in the infuriatingly adorable way he does when he’s being witty. Maybe he’s <i>gay</i> after all and will covertly ask for Ian’s number.</p>
<p>Fuck.</p>
<p>Ian’s gotta get a grip because he’s spiralling into a state the most dedicated of quote-unquote “stans” probably don’t even reach.</p>
<p>He’s at the front of the line now, and the employee’s scanning his neon wristband, and then he’s being ushered into the Creator Circus.</p>
<p>He takes a deep breath once he’s in and Liam and Jacob are on either side of him, clutching their T-shirts excitedly.</p>
<p>The room is much more basic than Ian had anticipated given the fact that it’s housing what’s called the Creator Circus, but he guesses he shouldn’t be surprised after the lackluster decor of the main conference hall. It’s a square room with light-wood floors and annoyingly garish lighting. There’s some attempt at a creepy circus theme, the same bunting from the lobby zig-zagging across the ceiling and black and purple balloons lying about, but combined with the varying styles of the creators’ booths, it just looks messy.</p>
<p>Along the walls are booths set up and decorated in accordance with the aesthetic tastes and channel themes of each YouTuber, and a red velvet rope barrier marks a one-way path around the room, passing the booths and encouraging only brief visits at each one.</p>
<p>Ian quite literally has no idea who any of the YouTubers are with the exception of Mickey. And well, his heart gives a bit of a kick when he spots him--third booth from the end, a black zippered hoodie pulled on over his floral shirt. He’s tossing a Sharpie into the air over and over again, looking bored as hell as he waits for the first fans in line to make his way to him. Ian bites back an endeared smile, feeling a burst of warmth in his chest.</p>
<p>As they make their way around, Ian holds back near the edge of the roped-off area, letting the kids greet the YouTubers they apparently know and watching them use their nine-year-old cuteness to con them into selfies, which aren’t strictly permitted.</p>
<p>When they’re two booths away from Mickey and Ian’s finally able to get a good look at him, he leans against the velvet rope, feeling the give and then hitch as it catches, taught, and unashamedly watches MICK MILK sign T-shirts and do various sweetly human things like scratch the slight stubble growing at his jawline and lick his lips.</p>
<p>“Sir?” a member of convention staff calls to Ian, voice overly loud and stern. “Off the rope, please.”</p>
<p>Ian straightens immediately--jerking out of his dreamworld--only to wither in humiliation when Mickey turns from where he sits at his booth twenty feet away and looks at him--looks straight at the idiot who got reprimanded for leaning against the rope barrier.</p>
<p>Ian looks away quickly, his cheeks flaming up and going all hot under the eyes. </p>
<p>When he dares to look back, Mickey’s got a funny little twist to his lips and has clearly just diverted his eyes the moment Ian turned toward him.</p>
<p>Shit.</p>
<p>How fucking embarrassing. Ian’s celebrity crush thinks he’s a loser before he’s even met him.</p>
<p>And it doesn’t help matters that when Ian and the kids finally make their way to his booth, Ian realizes he’s misplaced the convention booklet he’d planned to get Mickey to sign and stands there like a complete numbnuts, patting his front and back pockets over and over again and peering around awkwardly, wondering where the hell he’s left it.</p>
<p>“I got a card, man, chill,” Mickey says, and Ian looks up to see Mickey grabbing a white 2x3 card from a stack on the table in front of him.</p>
<p>Blood rushes in his ears as he watches Mickey--a sweet lock of hair falling over his forehead--sign his name in a sweeping, messy scrawl with a silver Sharpie. </p>
<p>He holds out the card to Ian.</p>
<p>Ian exhales slowly, and before his brain fires off enough for him to react, Mickey shakes the card and raises his eyebrows like <i>Ya gonna fuckin’ take it</i>?</p>
<p>“Thanks,” Ian pushes out quickly, taking the card from Mickey and noting the tiny sliver of leftover black polish along the corner of his thumbnail. He sees the FUCK on his knuckles and the tiny bit of white fuzz on the sleeve of his hoodie.</p>
<p>Ian takes a step back, heart creeping up into his throat, and watches Liam and Jacob talk animatedly to Mickey, who doesn’t look like he finds them especially cute at all and instead listens to them with an entirely disinterested expression. He signs their T-shirts and says “thanks” in the most even-toned, unexcitable voice Ian’s ever heard in response to Liam’s, “Your Let’s Plays are awesome.”</p>
<p>Mickey doesn’t ask him which one’s his brother, and he doesn’t give him a fond look like he thinks the kids are cute.</p>
<p>Instead, once Liam and Jacob have moved along to the next booth, Mickey raises his eyebrows at Ian and asks impatiently, “Ya need somethin’? Kinda holdin’ up the line here.”</p>
<p>“Shit. Fuck.” Ian squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head before holding out his hand with the card in an awkward wave.</p>
<p>“Thanks,” he quakes, feeling like the most dumbass of all dumbasses. “For signing this. I like your stuff.”</p>
<p>Mickey nods at Ian, brows still raised like he’s confused as fuck, and Ian thumbs toward the other booth. </p>
<p>“Gotta go.” He starts to walk away and, bumbling like a fool, murmurs another awkward “thanks.”</p>
<p>“Yep,” he hears Mickey mutter with complete disinterest.</p>
<p>Once Ian’s safely at the next booth and he can hear fans behind him fawning over Mickey, he takes a second to close his eyes in a cringe, gripping the autograph card in his right hand. Can he <i>be</i> more of an embarrassing loser?</p>
<p>Not only is he a nineteen-year-old guy with a fanboy crush on a celebrity YouTuber, but said celebrity YouTuber thinks he’s an idiot.</p>
<p>Great. Ian paid 130 bucks in order to disappoint himself.</p>
<p>He shoves Mickey’s autograph in his back pocket, places his hands on Liam’s shoulders, and follows him around through the remaining booths and out the doors into the lobby.</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>They hit the arcade one more time before the convention ends at six, then Ian hands over the rest of the money he’d brought along for popcorn for the kids, which is being served in the lobby by an unfortunate convention staff member dressed in what’s supposed to be a goth emcee outfit but what looks like Beetlejuice’s suit.</p>
<p>While the kids eat, laugh, and take selfies on the bench by the cardboard cut-outs display, Ian hits up the bathroom.</p>
<p>Having been used heavily throughout the day, two of the three stalls are out of order, it smells like a barn, and there are people in line for both the remaining stall and the urinals. Ian backs out quickly and wanders, instead, down one of the offshooting hallways, following the hotel-mounted sign directing him toward additional bathrooms.</p>
<p>The one he finds is more private--tucked away in an alcove off a long, empty conference hallway--and it’s blessedly empty and clean, looking like it hasn’t been occupied all day. </p>
<p>After using the bathroom, Ian washes his hands at the sink and then splashes water on his face. He leans over the porcelain and stares into the mirror, eyes running over the freckles standing out prominently on his cheeks in the light of the bathroom and the embarrassed redness beneath his eyes just now beginning to fade away.</p>
<p>He huffs a breath, eyes meeting eyes, considering how on one hand, he’s excited he was able to see MICK MILK play live and then speak actual words to him and get his autograph, but on the other, he’s frustrated because Mickey thinks he’s a goddamned idiot.</p>
<p>It doesn’t <i>matter</i>, though, he thinks, stepping away from the sink and moving over to grab a paper towel from the dispenser. He dries his hands meticulously and ponders the bit of polish on Mickey’s thumb, wondering when and why he ever paints his single thumbnail black.</p>
<p><i>It doesn’t matter</i>. Mickey doesn’t know him, and Ian doesn’t know Mickey--not really--and no matter whether the guy saw him today and thought he was dumb as a box of rocks or the love of his life, Ian’s free to think whatever he wants about him.</p>
<p>He’s free to contemplate the nailpolish on his thumb and the stray lock of hair that kept slipping down over his forehead and the bit of white fuzz on the sleeve of his hoodie.</p>
<p>He’s free to do whatever he wants because they don’t know each other, and <i>it doesn’t fucking matter</i>.</p>
<p>Ian wads up the paper towel and tosses it in the trash, and he’s spinning around to move back in the direction of the door when someone comes bursting in with a huff, a rush of frenetic energy sizzling through the air the moment he steps onto the tiled floor with his immaculate black Timberland boots.</p>
<p>Ian thinks he might swallow his tongue. Or throw up. Or do any number of dramatic things.</p>
<p>Instead, he just stands there, eight feet away, and watches MICK MILK, Mick, Mickey squeeze at the bridge of his nose as if irritated, holding a phone in a white case against his ear.</p>
<p>“I’m not fuckin’ doin’ it,” he murmurs, a thread of exhausted intensity in his voice. “I ain’t givin' that motherfucker a cent, and Iggy can shut the fuck up and stop bein’ such a pussy.” </p>
<p>He hasn’t yet noticed Ian, his eyes downcast, tilted toward his boots. Ian watches silently as Mickey kicks his boot at the floor and then shifts his weight to the other foot. </p>
<p>Mickey inhales, an odd hitch catching him in the middle, then whispers, like he’s at the end of his rope, “Yeah, well. Fuck you, too.”</p>
<p>He ends the call and takes two steps toward the sink before jerking in surprise upon spotting Ian, his brows knitting together unhappily. “Can I fuckin’ help you?”</p>
<p>“Sorry,” Ian apologizes, heart drumming as he fidgets over by the trash can. Fuck, he needs to get out of the bathroom. </p>
<p>He’s being awkward, but well, MICK MILK is standing at the sink, leaning against the porcelain in such a way that the water shaken from Ian’s hands is probably getting on his hoodie.</p>
<p>Apparently choosing to ignore him, Mickey tilts into the mirror and examines his right earlobe. He’s clutching something tightly between his index finger and thumb and, with hurried movements, brings it up and fiddles with the back of his earring.</p>
<p>After several seconds of unabashed staring, Ian realizes Mickey’s lost the stud back and is attempting to work a bit of pencil eraser onto the post.</p>
<p>He considers saying something, but anything he can think to say immediately drips out his ears the moment it enters his muddled mind, and he’s left staring and gaping like a fucking dumbass as he watches Mickey do something for which he probably doesn’t want an audience.</p>
<p>That’s only confirmed a moment later when, after catching Ian’s reflection in the mirror, he sneers, “Take a picture, why don’t you?”</p>
<p>Ian huffs a breath and wipes his damp palms on the hips of his jeans. “Sorry,” he apologizes again quickly, averting his eyes and deciding whether to finally leave the bathroom or stand there, continuing to be a fucking weirdo but a weirdo who manages to have another conversation with MICK MILK.</p>
<p>Mickey ignores him once more and instead curses at his earring, pulling it all the way out of his ear and taking a minute to jab the post down into the eraser, creating a hole he can then use to his advantage when he attempts to use the eraser as a makeshift stud back.</p>
<p>“What happened to your earring?” Ian asks, voice light in an attempt at a casual tone.</p>
<p>Mickey cuts his eyes at him for the briefest of moments before responding, “Don’t really feel like talkin’, man, no offense.” </p>
<p>Ian blanches and presses his lips together. “Yeah, okay. Sorry.”  He blows out a resigned breath and starts to make his way toward the door. </p>
<p>He’s a second away from opening it, arm outstretched to grab at the handle, when he decides to be an idiot <i>one last time</i>.</p>
<p>He turns back to Mickey and says, voice as sure and even as he can make it, “I’m the one who left the comment about your <i>Black Orchid</i> playthrough, by the way.” Ian swallows and then clears his throat, forcing himself to continue. “About Thierry and how you made him gay like it was no big deal. You replied to my comment. It…” He pauses and lowers his arm to his side. Shrugs. “It meant a lot, I guess. I don’t really see gay stuff like that very often, and it’s good that you were cool about it. And that you replied to me.”</p>
<p>Ian doesn’t know what he’s expecting Mickey to say to that. In all fairness, it’s an awkward thing he’s just said--a way too heartfelt confession in the Marriott bathroom while Mickey’s holding a pencil eraser in one hand and an earring in the other.</p>
<p>But for all the fact that he doesn’t know what he’s expecting, Ian knows it sure as hell isn’t, “Whatever, man. You ain’t special.”</p>
<p>Ian’s mouth drops open and all the air leaves his lungs in an embarrassing whoosh, like he’s been kicked in the back. He swallows again. “I didn’t say I was.”</p>
<p>Mickey turns away from him and sniffs irritably. He leans back into the mirror and starts working on his earring again. “You think it.”</p>
<p>“Um.”</p>
<p>“You all think you’re fuckin’ special if I like your tweet or your Instagram comment or your fuckin’ boohoos about your faggoty-ass shit.”</p>
<p>Ian lowers his eyebrows, heart slowing to a stop. “What’s your fuckin’ problem?”</p>
<p>Mickey shrugs as if he hasn’t just used the phrase <i>faggoty-ass shit</i> to Ian’s face. “Ain’t got one, man.” He pushes the stud post as hard as he can into the eraser and, when it seems to stick, murmurs under his breath, “Fuckin’ finally.”</p>
<p>“I wasn’t <i>boohooing</i> about anything,” Ian continues, a sizzle beginning just under his skin, crackling up his spine. “I was just saying--”</p>
<p>“And <i>I</i> was just sayin’ you ain’t special. No offense.”</p>
<p>“Holy shit,” Ian exclaims, crossing his arms over his chest. “Can you be more of a dick?”</p>
<p>“I ain’t bein’ nothin’, man. I told you. I’m not in the mood to talk to somebody I don’t know in a fuckin’ bathroom.”</p>
<p>“Fine.”</p>
<p>Mickey raises his eyebrows and waves his right hand in a <i>go on</i> gesture. “Bye.”</p>
<p>Ian turns to go, his heart, having fallen out of his chest cavity, lodged firmly in his gut and being eaten away by acid.</p>
<p>But just as he’s got his hand around the door handle, he turns once more to the conceited piece of shit leaned back against the sink. “So just to confirm. You called me a faggot?”</p>
<p>Mickey scoffs and pushes away from the sink. “I didn’t call you shit.”</p>
<p>“No, you called my YouTube comment <i>faggoty-ass</i> shit.”</p>
<p>“Look, it ain’t like that, man.” Mickey twists up his mouth and shakes his head as if sorely regretting his words, the homophobic motherfucking celebrity accidentally outing himself as a piece of shit to a fan.</p>
<p>A fan with a social media account.</p>
<p>“You’re an asshole,” Ian fumes, blood boiling and turning the tips of his ears hot.</p>
<p>Mickey groans and makes an exasperated, breathy laughing sound, rubbing his palms up and down his face. “Why the fuck are you still here?” </p>
<p>“Why? Don’t wanna be alone in a bathroom with a <i>fuck</i>-ing queer?”</p>
<p>“Are you kiddin’ me, man? You’re fuckin’ crazy.”</p>
<p>“Fuck you.” Ian jerks open the door so hard it swings back and bangs obnoxiously loud against the doorstop.</p>
<p>He feels like his guts have turned to mush, like the muscles in his calves are atrophied, limbs weak with just the heaviest, most overwhelmingly exhausted disappointment. </p>
<p>He’d <i>known</i> he wasn’t ever going to be anything to MICK MILK; he’s dealt with too much already to have any sense of optimism or lighthearted hope in his life. Mickey could turn out to be an alien in human skin and it wouldn’t <i>really</i> matter to Ian.</p>
<p>But the fact that he’s a rude, condescending piece of homophobic shit makes Ian want crawl under the covers of his bed and never come back out. </p>
<p><i>Fuck</i>. </p>
<p>And now his whole day’s ruined--this entire experience, the awe he felt listening to Mickey talk about horror, the butterflies in his belly when he watched his tiny grin while he was on stage, and even the silly embarrassment from his flustered self at the signing. It’s all gone down the drain, and Ian wants to cry.</p>
<p>He should’ve known, he thinks, sauntering back down the hall toward the lobby, where he spies the boys playing Jacob’s Switch while they wait. He should’ve known it’d turn out like this. </p>
<p>Celebrities all fuckin’ suck, obviously. They’re jerks with God complexes because they have money and fame and followers who, after they’re kicked in the face, will simply ask them to do it again.</p>
<p>Fuck that.</p>
<p>Ian’s stomach hurts.</p>
<p>He shoves his hands down in the pockets of his jeans and goes to get the kids. They’re going home.</p>
<p>---<br/>
---</p>
<p>It’s hard to just…<i>stop</i>.</p>
<p>MICK MILK has become such a large part of Ian’s life over the past few months, his spare hours having been spent watching his streams and videos, reading his tweets, and liking his Instagram posts.</p>
<p>When he’s home that evening, changed into sweats and a tank-top and stretched out on his bed, Ian scrolls through Mickey’s Instagram account, re-examining all his pictures, looking for clues that he’s an asshole beneath the precious little badass exterior.</p>
<p>In the pictures that aren’t professional or posed, he appears just like any happy twenty-year-old, holding tumblers of coffee and making silly faces and looking excited to be in whatever faraway location he’s been able to explore--a veranda overlooking Paris, a park in rainy London, a restaurant in Rome.</p>
<p>He’s rarely in pictures with other people, and if he is, it’s always other celebrity gamers or the rare post with fans from a meet-and-greet. </p>
<p>Maybe that’s it. Maybe Mickey’s so much of an asshole that he doesn’t have any friends. Maybe that’s why he keeps his life so private--he’s hiding that dark shit that, if exposed, would cost him everything he’s got.</p>
<p>Ian scrolls back to the top of Mickey’s page, taps the “Following” button, and then “Unfollow.”</p>
<p>It sends a tiny surge of stress into his chest, but he does it again with Twitter and then again with YouTube. And when he’s done, he locks his phone, tosses it to the foot of his bed, and buries his face in his pillow, wanting to scream.</p>
<p>None of this matters in the long run, but MICK MILK had been a source of comfort for Ian. That he’d had to prove himself to be an asshole sucks all the life out of everything, Ian’s initially boring, unproductive, uninspiring existence seeping back in to fill in the gaps left behind.</p>
<p>---<br/>
---</p>
<p>Two nights later, Liam posts a picture on Instagram of MICK he’d taken at the con--a grainy-from-the-zoom photo of him on stage, playing <i>Amnesia</i>. He’s tagged Mickey, and Ian can’t help but click his name on the photo and head over to his account.</p>
<p>He sees that Mickey’s posted a series of photos of him posing in various locations within the conference center--in front of the cardboard cutouts, by the giant, smoking popcorn bucket, and sitting at the portable gaming station on stage, his beanie on and his tongue out.</p>
<p><i>thanks for the fun @ctagevents and @mynabirdgames! always glad to be back in chicago</i> 🤘 it’s captioned. Ian rolls his eyes so hard his head moves with it.</p>
<p>Curious and feeling like one hell of a masochist, he taps the comments and scrolls through, seeing heart emoji after heart emoji after fire emoji after pleading emoji and <i>i love you</i>. There’s fans commenting on the show and on the convention. There’s fans saying they were happy to meet him at the signing.</p>
<p>Ian decides right then that he probably needs a friend or two to tell him to shut the fuck up because, without even thinking twice, he finds himself tapping into the comment box and typing out <a href="https://i.ibb.co/377y9c9/instacomment.jpg">something</a> that he’s going to regret in twelve hours.</p>
<p><i>Wanna tell everybody about how you’re a homophobic piece of shit who thinks he’s god’s gift to mankind or will that ruin your image? This “f*ggot” hopes you tripped on your way out of the bathroom, asshole</i> 🖕</p>
<p>Ian closes out of the Instagram app and shoves his phone under his pillow. There’s no way Mickey’s going to see it, so it was probably a waste of his time and energy to post. </p>
<p>But shit, he can’t deny that it feels good.</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>The next morning, he manages to wait until after breakfast to check Instagram, curious about whether anyone had liked or replied to his comment or if--as he predicts--people have ignored it altogether as it got buried beneath nearly 2,000 comments.</p>
<p>A lump forms in his throat when he sees the reality.</p>
<p>His comment has over fifty replies and 102 likes and is now the top comment out of 2,941.</p>
<p>“Shit,” he whispers under his breath, tapping the replies and scrolling through them, heart pounding. </p>
<p>The responses are mixed--about a third of them complete vitriol bordering on threats, a third of them confused exclamations and prompts for more details, and the final third statements of agreement with a few personal anecdotes mixed in--stories about how MICK’s been a dick to them and how they’re not surprised he’s also a homophobe.</p>
<p>In addition to the replies to his comment, Ian has twelve direct message requests from people asking for more information, and nine strangers have followed him.</p>
<p>How the hell did this make such a stir?</p>
<p>Curious, Ian heads over to Twitter and checks MICK’s mentions.</p>
<p><i>Shit</i>.</p>
<p>It’s flooded with screenshots of Ian’s comment side-by-side with Mickey’s rainbow mural photo and people writing, <i>make it make sense</i>. There’s tweet after tweet calling him <i>homophobic trash</i>, saying <i>go fuck yourself</i>, and trying to get the hashtag #MICKMILKCANCELLED trending.</p>
<p>Occasionally, in the midst of the flames, is a histrionic tweet in his defense, which in and of itself garners twenty-plus likes and replies ranging from <i>why are people so mean to him????</i> to <i>stfu 🖕 </i> and 💀.</p>
<p>Ian brings the neck of his T-shirt up over his mouth and squeezes his eyes shut.</p>
<p>Has he accidentally gotten him fuckin’ <i>cancelled</i>?</p>
<p>He hadn’t actually intended to stir up shit, even if Mickey probably deserves it.</p>
<p>Taking a deep breath, Ian taps over to his timeline to see what the fans he follows are saying. Some of them are declaring they’re stepping away from him, some are having CuriousCat wars with anonymous followers, but still many are coming to his defense.</p>
<p>Nightmare Maggie, who often makes cryptic posts like she somehow knows secret information about Mickey, tweets</p>
<p>
  <i>everybody needs to stfu about shit they know nothing about and leave him alone. block me, idgaf, i will go to my grave over this. 🖕</i>
</p>
<p>The tweet has an enormous amount of replies, most of them 👀 emojis or responses to the effect of <i>wait. dm me?</i> There are even a couple quote tweets on his timeline from respected Mickey fans saying things like, 🚨🚨<i> listen to mags, people</i> 🚨🚨 and <i>LOUDER FOR PEOPLE IN THE BACK 🗣🗣</i>.</p>
<p>Ian swallows hard. His stomach hurts.</p>
<p>He considers deleting his Instagram comment, suddenly feeling anxious, the response and fall-out like a boulder pushed off a cliff and picking up speed, Ian helpless to stop it.</p>
<p>He’s also mildly concerned about Liam seeing his comment. He’s just a kid and doesn’t need to know this shit.</p>
<p>Ian sets down his phone for a minute and folds his arms on the table in front of him, leaning down, closing his eyes, and resting his face against his wrist.</p>
<p>Someone comes into the kitchen. Probably Debbie, her shoes <i>clack-clack</i>ing in an unpracticed fashion as she walks.</p>
<p>He hears her voice then, pitched upwards with concern. “Ian?”</p>
<p>Ian lifts his head and yawns, taking a minute to stretch. He feels lousy, like he hasn’t slept well even though he went to bed at eleven and slept until ten.</p>
<p>“Hey, Debs,” he greets sleepily, running a hand across his face.</p>
<p>Debbie’s standing by the fridge, dressed in heels and a pink shirt tucked into a short skirt. Her hair, newly cut, is pulled back in the middle in a silver clip, and she’s sporting eyeliner and mascara, new additions to her daily routine.</p>
<p>She eyes her brother curiously, and Ian feels the question coming before she even asks it. “You okay?”</p>
<p>Debbie isn’t as frequent as Fiona with her check-ins and tendency to baby, but it always hurts Ian’s heart whenever his kid sister acts concerned. He remembers the day he flushed his pills--back before he got his meds balanced--and how he’d scared the shit out of her enough that she’d run off with Liam in tow to get Fiona at Patsy’s.</p>
<p>“I’m fine, Debs,” he says now, leaning his head from side to side and stretching his neck. “Just tired.”</p>
<p>“You sure?”</p>
<p>Ian sighs and forces a smile, shoving up into standing and pushing in his chair. “Positive.”</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>He changes into shorts, throws on some sneakers, and goes for a jog. He’s actively trying to get the social media shit off his mind--to stop thinking about Mickey on the phone in the bathroom, Mickey running a hand over his face in exhaustion, Mickey trying desperately to get his earring fixed. Mickey with the sliver of leftover black polish on his nail.</p>
<p>It doesn’t work, of course. Spotify brings up “I Believe in a Thing Called Love” when he’s on mile two, and when he taps for the next song, it’s fucking “Love on Top.”</p>
<p>By the time he’s done with his run, having made it four miles to his pre-diagnosis eight, Ian’s committed to deleting the Instagram comment. </p>
<p>He sits down on the porch steps, sweat pouring down his temples and breath coming in hard pants, and pulls out his phone. </p>
<p>When he gets to Instagram, he sees that his comment’s already gone.</p>
<p><i>Shit</i>.</p>
<p>Mickey’s followed two people since Ian was on his profile that morning. He notices because his count went from exactly 100 to 102.</p>
<p>He’s been online.</p>
<p>He’s been online, and he both read and deleted Ian’s comment.</p>
<p>Holy shit.</p>
<p>Heart pounding, Ian goes over to Twitter and sees that people are complaining in Mickey’s mentions about him blocking them for calling him a homophobe.</p>
<p>Ian squeezes his eyes shut in a cringe. What the fuck has he started?</p>
<p>If Mickey deserves it, and probably he does--Nightmare Maggie likely doesn’t know anything--then whatever. Fine. Serves him right.</p>
<p>But there’s something about the sequence of events that has spiked Ian’s anxiety to an eleven, blood rushing in his ears and his skin feeling like ants are running around beneath.</p>
<p>He blows out a breath and grabs for the front of his shirt, pulling it up to wipe the sweat off his forehead. </p>
<p>Either way, this fucking sucks.</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>Ian manages to delete Twitter off his phone after his compulsive timeline-checking makes him feel like he’s losing his mind. It helps.</p>
<p>He still finds himself occasionally searching up MICK MILK’s Instagram account, checking out his new posts, which seem to come about once a week as usual, as if Ian’s comment and the ensuing Twitter flames and failed attempts to cancel him never happened.</p>
<p>Ian thinks he’s an absolute dick--actual homophobe or not. Whether his use of <i>faggoty-ass shit</i> was intended the way Ian took it or in some other way that for whatever reason a third of his Twitter fans think he needs to be left alone, he still said it. He still used it to refer to Ian’s sincere comment on the YouTube video. He still acted like a condescending asshole when Ian was just trying to talk to him.</p>
<p>Ian can take shit. He’s fuckin’ Southside. He can go toe to toe with any motherfucker who wants to throw down, and he’ll do it without a second thought. He’s not afraid to tell people what he thinks, and he’s not afraid to get his knuckles bloody.</p>
<p>The way Mickey acted hurt him. It takes nearly three weeks for him to realize this.</p>
<p>And he knows Mickey doesn’t owe him anything, and he knows that it can’t be easy just needing to use the bathroom mirror and having a fan stare at you and try to make conversation. He knows that from the getgo he’s had zero chance of ever being anything to Mickey, and therefore, he shouldn’t feel upset about him turning out to be a conceited dick.</p>
<p>But Ian can’t help but feel a little bit like he’s had his heart broken.</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>June turns to July, and though it’s still never going to work out for him, Ian’s putting in more time than ever at Patsy’s as customers start waking up earlier with the sun for breakfast and coffee, prompting Fiona to change the hours.</p>
<p>He goes in at five some days and works twelve, fourteen hour shifts, filling in wherever he can, washing dishes and taking orders and bussing tables while wearing his grease-stained white apron. The dry skin peels on his hands and his nails get cracked and his feet feel bruised at the soles from standing practically all day.</p>
<p>He doesn’t go running, and he doesn’t eat as much as he should, and for all intents and purposes, he’s completely lost whatever it was that watching MICK MILK videos gave him.</p>
<p>A sense of curiosity. Stimulation of the brain. A silly little crush that left him smiling in the dark.</p>
<p>Fuck it. Whatever. Mickey’s an asshole.</p>
<p>Ian takes a deep breath, and he does his thing, builds back up his routine, endures Fiona’s head kisses and Debbie’s concern and Carl’s weird questions about whether being crazy makes him feel like stripping off his clothes and running naked through the street. He lets Liam talk to him about video games because he’s a little kid, and he entertains Jacob when he’s over and allows him to lisp and jibber about whatever nerdy thing he’s into at the moment.</p>
<p>Ian moves on.</p>
<p>No. “Moves on” is too dramatic. He just <i>keeps going</i>. He doesn’t stop, at least.</p>
<p>And then it’s just after the Fourth of July. Ian’s checking his email for scannable coupons so he can help out with the groceries, when he finds a message from someone named Morgan Stoll, subject line <b>Congratulations!</b></p>
<p>
  <i>Dear Ian:</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>I’m pleased to inform you that contingent upon confirmation, you have been selected as the Chicago-area winner of the 1-on-1 cooperative gaming session with MICK MILK of Nightmare Hour, sponsored by SneakAttack Games and Monster Energy.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>The event will take place at the Uptown360 hotel on N Michigan Ave., Chicago, from 12pm to 6pm on Friday, July 17. A catered lunch will be provided, as well as exclusive prizes from our sponsors and a one-night hotel stay in a luxury king room with skyline views. You will be responsible for your own transportation and cost of travel.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Please respond to this email by Wednesday, July 8 with a scanned copy of your photo ID including proof of age, as well as with a list of any medical needs or dietary restrictions.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>If you are unavailable on this date and cannot provide a replacement over the age of 18, or if you do not respond by July 8, another winner will be chosen.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>We hope to hear from you soon.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Sincerely, </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Mo Stoll<br/>
Fahrenheit Management, Los Angeles</i>
</p>
<p>Ian feels like he did the time he fell off the monkey-bars in elementary school, broke his arm, and got the wind knocked out of him. He feels like he did the time in sixth grade when Aaron Linder out of nowhere came up and punched him in the face because of something Lip said. He feels like he did the first time he had sex, quick and breath-heavy in the dark of the empty school locker room. </p>
<p>Holy shit.</p>
<p>Ian sets down his phone and runs his hands over his face. How the hell is this possibly happening?</p>
<p>There had to have been upwards of a thousand Chicago entries. How is it possible that Ian was chosen?</p>
<p>It makes absolutely no sense and yet of course, of <i>course</i> this would happen. Of course Ian would have submitted a contest entry in order to meet his celebrity crush, would have then met said celebrity crush through other means and discovered he’s the asshole of the century, would have accidentally started a minor social media cancellation campaign and moved on from him, and then would have subsequently learned that he’d won a one-on-one catered lunch and gaming session with him.</p>
<p>What the fuck?</p>
<p>Why would this happen to him, and shit, how the hell does he turn this down?</p>
<p>Mickey’s a dick who may or may not also be a homophobe. Ian wants to punch him in the face. Ian also wants a catered lunch, a one-night stay in a luxury king hotel room, and exclusive prizes from sponsors. He kind of wants to look MICK MILK in the eye and call him an asshole to his face. He maybe wants to see his expression when Ian walks into the room, knowing he has to spend six hours hanging out with him.</p>
<p>He wants to see where MICK MILK ends and where Mickey begins, and he wants to ask him why the fuck he acted like a condescending prick that time in the bathroom.</p>
<p>He wants to ask him why he had to break Ian’s dumb, secret fanboy heart and why that shit had to result in him ripping away the one form of happiness Ian’d managed to have in his shitty, monotonous life.</p>
<p>Ian picks back up his phone and rereads the email, biting his lip.</p>
<p>Absolute worst case scenario? He gets into a fight with a celebrity. Absolute best case scenario? He figures out what makes Mickey tick.</p>
<p>Ian purses his lips and taps reply.</p>
<p><i>Dear Mo</i>, he types, holding his breath. <i>I’m free on the 17th.</i></p>
<p>And y’know what? Whatever.</p>
<p>Whatever MICK MILK of Nightmare Hour, Mikhailo A. Milkovich, Mick, Mickey with the eraser stud back and the leftover black nailpolish, the lock of hair falling onto his forehead and the white fuzz on the sleeve of his hoodie.</p>
<p>Get ready. </p>
<p>Game fucking on.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Some fun facts about Chapter 1:<br/>-Mickey's love of patterned button-downs is inspired by the fact that he's really into the Hawaiian shirt from the suitcase in season 5. Also, he's so stylish, and I think that if he had all the money in the world and gained freedom at an earlier age, he might be freer with his clothing choices. I know some are going to find the shirts hideous, but I love them and think Mickey would look ridiculously cool with them buttoned all the way to the collar, with black skinny jeans, boots, earrings, and his 7x11 cut and fade. He's a Bonobos fan. <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/a02932fb3f9e5e9d71b421d8fe12c3fb/3e68e9ca91a5450f-7d/s540x810/634e9773a5979018ab0da95abea1a34095869310.jpg">Here</a> is a picture that shows how he tends to dress.</p><p>-The music Mickey chooses for his streams is inspired by music contained in a lot of video games I played in the early 2000s. Beyoncé, The Cure, and, of course, Bon Jovi are all him, though. ♥️ Click <a href="https://gallavichy.tumblr.com/post/634892463411200000/click-here-to-view-the-cooperative">here</a> for the fic playlist, which will be updated for each chapter.</p><p>-The flat black studs are the 3rd incarnation of Mickey's earrings. At first, I was going to give him gauges, then I wanted to give him one stud and one dangly cross or charm earring like an 80s glam rocker, but finally I settled on <a href="https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/61%2BMuXTvOeL._AC_UY395_.jpg">these</a>.<br/> </p><p>Thanks so much for reading! Hope you enjoyed!</p><p>Gray</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. This is It, Boys, This is War</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>He’d gone into this thing wanting either to tell Mickey to kindly fuck off or to figure out what makes him tick. Ian’s happily done the first, but he can’t help but continue on to the second, intrigued as hell by this infuriating boy.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello! Thank you so much for the great response on Chapter 1! I'm having so much fun with this, and I hope you enjoy Chapter 2, as well!</p><p><b>Note before reading:</b> If you are unfamiliar with gaming, one thing you'll need to know about prior to reading this chapter is Quick Time Events, or QTEs. I sort of explain what it is through Ian, but just to further clarify, as it's actually significant: when you're playing a game--often a story-based game--sometimes you will receive a timed prompt in which you basically have to hit the correct button before time runs out or your character will fail the QTE and therefore will not successfully complete the action they are meant to complete (jump over a log, punch someone in a certain spot, dodge a moving object, etc.). This could cause them to become injured or otherwise to be held back on their task. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yy44s_de15Y">This YouTube video</a> sums it up pretty well, sets the tone for Ian's co-op with Mickey, and is just really funny.</p><p><b>Content Warnings for Chapter 2:</b> the rating is earned this chapter, so be warned ✌️</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He isn’t great at video games.</p><p>He’s <i>fine</i>. He can button-smash and beat the shit out of your fighter with absolute luck-based proficiency. He can run a little soldier around and shoot people and blow up aliens. He can best you at Mario Kart after the second or third try. In first-person shooters, he’ll only die three or four times per mission, and he’s okay at aiming his kill shots and executing basic offensive maneuvers.</p><p>But Ian isn’t anything to write home about, and he’s certainly not good enough to go head-to-head with a celebrity YouTuber. Especially not one who makes his living playing video games deftly enough to kick ass at co-op streams with other gamers who are actually known for their skill rather than their love of horror.</p><p>Because of this, aside from preparing a list of questions to ask MICK MILK at his cooperative gameplay session that Friday--namely, <i>What the fuck is wrong with you?</i>, <i>Why are you such a fuckin’ homophobic prick?</i>, and <i>Are you aware that you’re a shitty human being?</i>--Ian’s been fucking around on the old Gallagher Xbox for an hour or so per day, trying to brush up on his skill.</p><p>He hasn’t a clue what <i>style</i> of game they’ll be playing, so he’s picked up a handful for four bucks a piece at the thrift store and has been running through <i>Sonic Mania</i>, <i>Tony Hawk Pro Skater 1 + 2</i>, <i>Grand Theft Auto V</i>, and <i>Halo</i>.</p><p>Maybe Ian’s not developing skill so much as re-learning what buttons do what, but it’s a fun time. Liam sits with him most nights, and the two of them start up a competitive co-op run or yell together in rage when Ian gets sniped in GTA.</p><p>In addition to practicing his gaming, Ian’s also been sneaking back on to MICK MILK’s YouTube channel, checking out his latest Let’s Plays from the past few weeks in order to see if he might have mentioned the contest while he’s killing weird, zombie plant creatures. But aside from boredly announcing a disruption in his upcoming live streams due to “the three-city co-op thing [he’s] doing with SneakAttack,” Ian comes away from the videos with nothing but frustration.</p><p>Mickey’s such a hot, infuriating prick, with his <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/a48ecd077961d93408da3b6a3d251525/3573839b6458c358-2a/s540x810/094786f35e6a41783a7a83b4ee1090b1610d2882.jpg">jungle floral print shirt</a> with the sleeves rolled twice and his hair all artfully messy and pretty. Ian swipes the YouTube app closed with a dramatic flair and flops over onto his back in bed.</p><p>Fuck MICK MILK.</p><p>Twitter isn’t much better, and neither is Instagram. Ian redownloads the Twitter app to his phone so he doesn’t miss anything relevant to his and Mickey’s co-op session, and all the Mickey stan tweets plus Mickey’s own just piss him off. </p><p>Mickey’s posted a photo of himself posing with a Make-A-Wish kid on both Instagram and Twitter, and the caption is so fucking kind that Ian wants to scream.</p><p><i>thank you jackson for giving me the privilege of spending the day with you. you’re dope as shit and you’re gonna kick cancer’s ass.</i> 🤘</p><p>From that, Ian’s Twitter timeline is positively flooded with quote tweets, screenshots, and pleading face emojis. Of course, there’s also the drama.</p><p><i>i will literally kill for this man</i>, Nightmare Maggie’s tweeted, resulting in a slew of people calling her out for supporting a homophobe.</p><p><i>this is the last time i’m saying this,</i> she tweets in response, <i>but people calling mickey a homophobe can kindly shut the fuck up</i> ❤️️  <i>you don’t know shit and you’re just making yourselves look embarrassing af</i></p><p>Ian considers the fact that all of this is because of him--that Mickey has lost a couple thousand followers and now has a vehement group of haters on Twitter who regularly attack still-loyal fans.</p><p>He re-deletes the Twitter app because it makes his stomach hurt. </p><p>Fuck it. </p><p>There’s no point in attempting to prepare himself for Mickey through social media. He can continue to practice his games, and he can maintain his list of hard-hitting questions, but Ian realizes, after his latest foray into Twitter leaves him feeling sick and anxious, that he’s just going to have to take what comes.</p><p>He can’t decide whether he wants it to come now or never.</p><p>---<br/>
---</p><p>Uptown360 is a trendy, mid-size luxury hotel in the heart of the Magnificent Mile. The building is solid gray, the brick facade neat like perfectly stacked Lego pieces, and its accents are chartreuse and teal.</p><p>Ian smokes a cigarette outside before heading in, feeling like a little hood rat in his jeans, $7.99 V-neck, and worn JanSport backpack as he watches men and women with their button-downs and khakis sipping coffees as they rotate through the revolving door.</p><p>He checks his watch. In her email, Mo had asked for him to be there at 11:50 AM in preparation for a 12:00 PM lunch, and it’s three ‘til. </p><p>Ian finishes up his cigarette, crushes it under the toe of his Nike sneaker, and breathes out a heavy sigh. Here goes nothing.</p><p>He heads inside to a lobby as pretentiously trendy as the outside, everything gray and chartreuse and teal, all clean and crisp and smelling of diffused artificial green tea.</p><p>A tall, slim woman of about thirty with caramel skin and a curly bob is seated on the couch by the windows, tapping away at an iPad. She’s dressed in a pastel pink sweater french-tucked into a pair of high-waisted black jeans, and pinned to the left side of her top is a milk-carton enamel pin.</p><p>She looks up as Ian approaches and stands, outstretching her hand.</p><p>“Mr. Gallagher? I recognize you from your ID.” She smiles warmly and grasps Ian’s hand in a firm grip. “I’m Mo Stoll. Delighted to meet you.”</p><p>It takes Ian a moment to process the fact that she’s English, her accent on the side of thick and friendly-warm rather than that snooty, upper-class <i>pip, pip, cheerio</i> shit. </p><p>“Ian,” he recovers, giving her hand a brief squeeze. </p><p>Mo returns to her seat and gestures in front of her. “Doing alright?”</p><p>Ian nods awkwardly and, at her direction, has a seat in the chair across from the couch.</p><p>They make small talk as Mo swipes open a couple documents on her iPad for Ian to sign--another release and, after showing her his ID in person, an age and identity certification. She’s bubbly in a way that surprises Ian, and try as he might, he can’t imagine Mickey being closely associated with her, at least not to the degree she claims, casually informing Ian that she’s “a bit of a ‘jack-of-all-Mick-trades’, to be honest.” </p><p>Mo tells light jokes, and she acts interested in the fact that Ian’s a Chicago native who only had to hop the L that morning rather than spend four hours on a plane like she had.</p><p>“To top it off,” she says, voice bright with wry humor, “I was seat buddies with Mr. Milk, himself, then once at the airport, we discovered his suitcase didn’t make it on our flight. So believe me when I say that a <i>grand</i> time was had by all.”</p><p>Ian huffs a laugh at her sarcastic dig.</p><p>Interesting.</p><p>After setting her device on the couch cushion beside her, Mo scoots to the edge of her seat and leans her elbows on her knees.</p><p>“Right. I’ve got to go over a few rules for today. Not that you need them, but just because I’m obligated as per contract to cover them with anyone engaging with our client.”</p><p>Our client. <i>You mean your client who was a complete asshole to me in the Marriott bathroom?</i> Ian wants to ask, lips curling up and tongue poised. Something about her personality tells him she’d accept the question with grace and understanding.</p><p>“First, our photograph policy,” she begins, clasping her hands together and steepling her index fingers. “We have to ask that you not take candid photographs or video of our client without his consent. Please also be respectful with requests. He prefers not to record messages for friends, and he will not take phone or FaceTime calls.”</p><p>After waiting for Ian to nod, she continues. “Second, no physical contact without his permission. He’ll do side-hugs and certain poses for photos, but ask first. Finally, we request that you be reasonable and appropriate with all interaction and conversation.”</p><p>Mo asks if there are any questions, and when Ian shakes his head, she smiles warmly and stands. “Brilliant. Shall we head in?”</p><p>She grabs her iPad and shoulder bag and guides Ian through the lobby and toward a row of elevators. They take the conference elevator to 9-C and then exit onto what appears to be a practically empty floor. It’s quiet and weirdly lonely and makes Ian idly shift the strap of his backpack over his shoulder with nerves.</p><p>“I hope you enjoy your day,” Mo says as they make their way down a dimly lit hallway. “You’re our last winner and our only boy. We had some lovely girls last week who each had a fantastic time. Our Mick behaved himself.”</p><p>There it is again--a dig at his behavior. </p><p>Before they’re able to make it to the room set up for lunch, Ian decides to do a bit of poking.</p><p>“So, is Mickey--uh, <i>Mick</i>?--always, um.” He tilts his head back and forth, hoping she catches his meaning.</p><p>And she does with a grin. “An arsehole?”</p><p>“Um. Yeah.”</p><p>“Pretty much.” Eyes sparkling, Mo leads Ian into a bright, open area with one full wall of windows overlooking the city. Clearly a cafe during conferences, the room is now repurposed, with a table filled with covered platters lining the far right wall and a smattering of two-person tables cozied up to the windows so people eating can enjoy the view.</p><p>There’s a large man in a generic security uniform drinking coffee from a styrofoam cup and peering out the windows, and some bearded, hipster-y looking dudes in SneakAttack T-shirts are milling around, chatting with each other.</p><p>“But honestly, Ian, he’s actually a very nice guy once you get used to him,” Mo continues, voice serious. “I wouldn’t work with him otherwise.” She pats Ian on the shoulder kindly and gestures toward the food table, where caterers in white outfits are beginning to remove the platter lids. “Go on. Let’s get you sorted with some food, and I’ll track down Mr. Grumpy.”</p><p>Ian checks his watch. It’s already after twelve.</p><p>He feels awkward as shit as he lines up behind the SneakAttack guys, who introduce themselves as Tom and Gerard, and has his plate filled with herb-roasted chicken, red potatoes, and fettuccine alfredo. Mo’s gone off somewhere, and he really doesn’t have anyone to talk to or any guidance as to where he should sit or what he should do. The security guard looks bored as hell, now playing on his phone at one of the tables.</p><p>Ian fills a glass with lemon-infused ice water from a beverage dispenser and then walks his lunch over to the table in the far corner, where he has a seat by the window overlooking a neighboring hotel’s rooftop pool. And there he sits, eating his lunch alone for the next ten minutes while a few more people from SneakAttack and Monster filter into the room and begin to fill out the other tables.</p><p>At 12:20, Mo enters the room and quickly makes her way over to Ian’s table, a frustrated and apologetic look on her face. “I am <i>so</i> sorry, Ian,” she pleads, voice filled with frantic warmth. “Mick'll be here shortly, and I promise you’ll still have loads of time to chat.” She taps his table twice. “Help yourself to more food at your leisure, and please let me know if you need anything at all.”</p><p>Ian rubs a hand over his face. This is fucking perfect.</p><p>He only half wants to be here, really--that half for the novelty of spending the afternoon with a rich and famous guy and getting free fancy food, prizes, and a hotel stay out of it. </p><p>The other half of him is entirely pissed off at the arrogant prick who can’t even bother to show up to his own fucking event on time.</p><p>Ian’d honestly come in mentally swinging, bent on telling Mickey to fuck off if he got the chance. But then Mo’s little comments about him had talked Ian down to at least giving him a cautious chance, even if there was no fuckin’ way he was going to let him leave that afternoon without addressing the bathroom incident.</p><p>He’s back to having his fists up, irritated beyond belief the more time that ticks away.</p><p>For the hell of it, Ian gets up to grab another plate at 12:25, and he’s halfway through his second helping of potatoes and fettuccine when he hears Mo intone from where she’s seated a few tables away, “Lovely to see you, mate. So good of you to join us.”</p><p>Heart kicking into overdrive, Ian looks up just in time to catch Mickey making a <i>ha ha, very fuckin’ funny</i> face and giving Mo the finger.</p><p>The problem with Mickey--the forever problem, even when Ian was committed to unfollowing all of his accounts and never looking at him again--is that he’s just about the most personally physically appealing guy Ian’s ever seen.</p><p>Today, he’s dressed in a <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/9cb2ac5ca44cfcd3e91b17eff01cdfeb/d124a3c2b188d212-9d/s1280x1920/7e621f6609429dec37ac142d2b39dac595299187.jpg">blue and orange floral button-down</a>, dark wash jeans, and chocolate brown boots. His fade has been touched up since his most recent YouTube videos, but his hair on top is longer than ever and fluffy in a way that makes Ian want to touch. He has on his signature black studs, and his skin looks smooth and freshly shaven.</p><p>Ian watches, heart in his throat, as Mo murmurs something unintelligible to him, causing him to roll his eyes dramatically. She says it again, and Mickey sighs and looks up, eyes falling directly on Ian, who’s got his fork half-way to his mouth.</p><p>And see, Ian was looking forward to this moment. He was looking forward to seeing the expression on Mickey’s face when he saw that the guy he called a faggot in the Marriott bathroom would be spending six hours with him that afternoon.</p><p>Shit, Ian's <i>daydreamed</i> about what it’d be like, this look of absolute shock and embarrassment on Mickey’s face and the jolt of delicious revenge-glee that would zap its way through Ian’s body.</p><p>What he really hadn’t anticipated was for Mickey’s expressive eyebrows to draw together and for him to say, voice loud like he’s projecting to an audience, “No fuckin’ way.”</p><p>Every single person happily eating in the room turns their head to stare at Mickey, who’s got his arms crossed over his chest like a petulant child. “No,” he repeats with an air of finality, turning around and stalking back out of the room.</p><p>Mo turns to look at Ian, the most ridiculously puzzled expression on her face. She stands quickly and follows Mickey out the door.</p><p>Ian sets down his fork and presses his palms over his eyes.</p><p>What the actual fuck does he do now?</p><p>Suddenly, what was initially a situation in which he thought he might have the upper-hand--the guy who called out Mickey’s ass getting to face him once and for all--is now stupidly embarrassing. </p><p>Ian feels his cheeks burn under the eyes, and his stomach feels like it’s flopping over and over, inside-out, his overindulgence of carbs not helping the matter.</p><p><i>Shit</i>. </p><p>Ian looks around at the event team members who are whispering and shooting quick glances his way as if he wouldn’t notice. He checks his watch, checks his phone, and considers getting up and walking out. </p><p>He could leave this fancy-ass hotel and go back to the safety of his Southside existence, the safety of Patsy’s Pies and KFC dinners and a shitty Xbox with outdated games.</p><p>He could easily delete his Instagram account, delete the YouTube app, and continue on as if nothing had ever happened--as if MICK MILK was just a weird little blip on his life’s radar, just a flash in the pan. </p><p>He could go back to getting by, to doing what he can to survive until his world changes and something better comes his way.</p><p>Quickly, Ian grabs his water glass, drains half of it, and, after blowing out a final breath, turns in his seat to stand.</p><p>And it’s in that moment that Mickey comes storming back in, looking for all the world like he’s been scolded by the principal and now has to apologize to the kid he’d punched in the face. </p><p>Mo follows him, giving him a little shove, and with his mouth set and eyebrows drawn together, he begrudgingly makes his way over to Ian, who’s a second away from blowing the joint.</p><p>“‘ey,” Mickey greets, voice dripping with faux-civility. He outstretches his hand.</p><p>Ian stares at it for the moment--sees the FUCK on his knuckles and the way his nails are bitten and jagged--and finally, with the hardest lip-bite of his life, he takes it.</p><p>Mickey’s palm is damp with sweat and warm to the touch. Ian gives it a quick shake and drops it.</p><p>“Hey,” he greets in return, hoping he sounds as passive-aggressive as he feels.</p><p>Mickey nods at him, eyes narrowed like he’s desperately holding back a childish eye-roll, and turns to go get himself some food.</p><p>Mo’s eyeing Ian from over by her table, arms crossed over her stomach like she’s unsure, and Ian desperately wants to tell her, “Listen. <i>I’m</i> not the asshole. <i>He</i> is.” Who the fuck knows what Mickey told her out in the hallway.</p><p>He feels like he’s going to puke.</p><p>It’s not too late to run, he tells himself, watching Mickey getting his plate. Watching his ass in his jeans as he leans over to grab a garlic knot out of a basket.</p><p>Fuck. Why’s he gotta be hot?</p><p>Heat seeps more and more into Ian’s cheeks, and he thinks he might die when Mickey turns toward him for a second as he makes his way over to the beverage table. Ian can’t miss the slightly withering look on his face, the pinched mouth and the bunched brows.</p><p>Shit, he may be hot, but he’s still an asshole. Ian picks up his silverware and tries to affect an appearance of boredom as he drags his fork through the dregs of his fettuccini. </p><p>---</p><p>He jumps, startled, a minute later when Mickey rudely clashes his plate and glass down on the table, causing the first centimeter of his water to slosh out in a wet little wave.</p><p>Ian looks up, heart in his throat, as Mickey drops in the chair like a huffy kindergartener and seems to commit himself to looking everywhere but at Ian, his eyes wandering the span of the small table and then out the window, landing on the rooftop pool.</p><p>It’s at this moment, when Mickey’s pretty-ass blue eyes are light-filled from the window, that Ian notices the redness around the rims and the slight shiny bloodshot appearance in the corners, like he’s been crying.</p><p>Or maybe he’s just been smoking weed.</p><p>Ian takes a nervous sip of his water, hand shaking so much he’s afraid of creating his own little wave, and swallows heavily.</p><p>Mickey turns to him then, face stony and mouth working as if deciding on a plan of attack, and hisses, “<i>You</i>.” His voice carries daggers--sharp, piercing.</p><p>All the breath leaves Ian’s lungs in one audible huff. </p><p>Carefully, he sets down his water glass and, never one to back away from a challenge, leans back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. “What.”</p><p>“What the fuck, man?”</p><p>Ian raises his eyebrows and tightens his arms. <i>What’s that, asshole?</i> he wants to ask, his mouth watering with the thought of it. Instead, he simply stares Mickey down, chin hard and tight.</p><p>Mickey scoffs and leans back in his own chair, and Ian feels his boots accidentally brush against his sneakers under the table. He’d be lying if he said his stomach didn’t give a little twist at it.</p><p>“Bitch, you set fuckin’ Twitter trolls on me for hours.”</p><p>“I didn’t do shit.”</p><p>“You almost got me cancelled for the twentieth fuckin’ time.”</p><p>Ian rolls his eyes dramatically, head rocking on his shoulders with it, and sits up in order to lean closer. “Well maybe you shouldn’t have been a fuckin’ prick to me.”</p><p>“When the <i>fuck</i> was I a prick to you?”</p><p>Ian snorts, looking off to the side away from Mickey’s face. Fucking asshole. He’s not even going to grace that with a response.</p><p>Mickey apparently doesn’t need one, as Ian hears him start working on his food, the tines of his fork making annoying clanging noises as they stab through his roasted red potatoes.</p><p>Ian looks up just in time to see Mickey quickly look away from him, something complicated flashing across his face. Mickey chews his food and swallows, then takes an inelegant gulp of water. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.</p><p>“If you hate me so much, why’d you agree to do this?” he asks, his tone of voice having kicked down a notch and landed firmly in grumpy teenager territory. “Could'a said you didn’t want it.”</p><p>Uncrossing his arms and straightening in his seat, Ian sneers. “Free meal. Free prizes. Free hotel room. Opportunity to call you an asshole in person.”</p><p>“Fuck you.”</p><p>The heat settes around them like a suffocating blanket, and Ian grabs his water glass and goes to get a refill.</p><p>Mo comes up to him as he’s waiting on his glass to fill. She gently touches his back and murmurs, as if not wanting to cause a fuss, “Everything alright?”</p><p>“Peachy,” Ian answers, flipping over the tap. “Completely fuckin’ peachy.”</p><p>“Do you need a moment? I can talk to Mickey, or--”</p><p>“Nope. I’m good.” Ian softens his features, knowing she’s just trying to be helpful. “Thanks.”</p><p>He hears her sigh as he walks toward his and Mickey’s table, eyes on the back of the infuriating asshole who’s eating his lunch like he hasn’t just been having an argument with a fan. He’s got his right leg bent, his foot propped on his left knee, and he’s bouncing his left leg restlessly.</p><p>Ian has a seat once he’s made it over to him, and Mickey only briefly looks up before casting his eyes back down to his food, eating like it’s been weeks since his last meal.</p><p>Spiteful and maybe just a touch petty, Ian picks up his own fork and settles in to finish up his plate, playing it cool and casual as fuck.</p><p>A few minutes later, a member of the catering crew comes over to gather their dessert orders, and after asking for cherry cheesecake, Ian leans back in his chair again and once more crosses his arms over his chest.</p><p>Mickey, who’s been ignoring him for the past five minutes, suddenly drops his fork on his plate and gets his foot off his knee, his boot falling with a thump against the carpet. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”</p><p>“What the fuck is wrong with <i>me</i>? What the fuck is wrong with <i>you</i>?”</p><p>“Jesus <i>Christ</i>,” Mickey groans, loudly enough for everyone in the room to once more turn to look at him. “We got any booze in this joint?”</p><p>Ian purses his lips and blows out a long breath, running through the list of questions in his head. </p><p><i>What’s your problem?</i> <i>Why are you such a fuckin’ homophobic prick?</i> <i>Are you aware that you’re a shitty human being?</i></p><p>Mickey gives him a <i>what?!</i> look, and Ian leans forward, dropping his elbows to the table on either side of his empty plate.</p><p>“Do you really not understand why I’m pissed at you?”</p><p>“You called me a homophobe on the fuckin’ internet, which is bullshit.”</p><p><i>Fuck</i> this guy.</p><p>“Well the fact that you’re a homophobe is kinda bullshit to me,” Ian argues, voice rising in intensity.</p><p>“<i>Oh-my-God</i>!” Mickey shouts, bringing his hands up to the sides of his head. “I’m <i>not-a-fuckin’-homophobe</i>!”</p><p>You could hear a pin drop, the room so silent that Ian hears the subtle drip of the air conditioning system somewhere in the walls. He hears the gentle thumps of people moving around on the floor above.</p><p>Mickey’s hard breaths, the only other sound, come quickly, and something about the look on his face makes Ian’s chest ache. He swallows, and the squeak of the saliva sliding down his throat is loud in the quiet room.</p><p>The security guy’s eyeing them, ready to pounce, and Mo looks like she’s about to croak, her cheeks pink and lip bitten under a line of straight white teeth.</p><p>Mickey, catching on, groans and yells, “Can you all mind your fuckin’ business, please?”</p><p>Ian <i>doesn’t</i> smile. He doesn’t.</p><p>But the corner of his top lip twitches as he watches Mickey roll his eyes and blow out an exasperated breath so hard that his lips flutter.</p><p>All at once, as if extras on a set told to <i>act natural</i> during a diner scene, the people in the room start talking again, slow at first and then in stops and starts but clearly making an effort to appear as if they’re <i>definitely not captivated by whatever the fuck’s happening with the celebrity YouTuber at the table in the corner.</i></p><p>Mo continues to watch them, and she doesn’t stop, tapping her nails over and over against her table and shifting her feet against the floor.</p><p>“Listen,” Mickey murmurs once the room is once more acceptably noisy. His voice is soft and serious. “It ain’t like that, man.”</p><p>Ian sighs. “What’s it like, then?”</p><p>Mickey’s eyes touch Ian’s for the briefest of moments, and fuck, yeah, he’s been crying, hasn’t he, that glassy, red-rimmed look unmistakable.</p><p>He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and breathes a hard puff out his nose. “It just ain’t like that.” He sounds strangely sad, nervous but like he’s trying to hide it, and Ian has the sudden compulsion to apologize to him even though he doesn’t think he has anything to apologize for.</p><p>Mickey twists up his mouth and shrugs at nothing, then takes a drink of his water. “I’m just not a homophobe, okay?” he says, and the tone of his voice tells Ian that’s the end of that conversation for now.</p><p>Ian studies him for a moment, unashamed, watching Mickey scrape his nail against the side of his water glass. He’s got a thicker bit of chipped black polish than he had at the conference, like he’s on day five post-paint rather than day ten. He’s also got a hangnail with a tiny spot of dried blood like he’s been picking at it.</p><p>And he may be a millionaire celebrity YouTuber, but it strikes Ian then that he’s also just a dumb twenty-year-old kid with an abrasive attitude. He presses his lips together and sighs through his nose.</p><p>“Fine,” he agrees, not happy but no longer burning with anger, either.</p><p>Mickey’s eyes flit to his, the blues so blue, and then quickly back down at his empty plate.</p><p>---</p><p>When dessert comes, they’ve managed to stop sneering at each other, though Ian wouldn’t say they’ve quite reached a truce.</p><p>He does attempt to engage Mickey in conversation, though, figuring what the hell, this is a once-in-a-lifetime experience. But Mickey’s not entirely receptive, his attitude seemingly having settled into <i>grumpy pre-teen too cool to answer his parents’ dinner table questions</i>.</p><p>“See you fixed your earring,” Ian comments, pointing his fork toward Mickey’s ear.</p><p>Mickey just shrugs and takes a bite of his chocolate silk pie.</p><p>Great. Wonderful.</p><p>Ian digs back into his cheesecake and finishes the rest of it in silence.</p><p>---</p><p>At one, a bearded man named Ethan from SneakAttack comes up to their table and asks to direct them toward the theater. </p><p>Mickey stands, suddenly all business, and adjusts the hem of his button-down, which has gone endearingly wrinkled from his seated position.</p><p>Ian hates himself for thinking that and stands to follow the other two men back into the hallway.</p><p>Ethan is clearly doing his best not to act starstruck, but Ian catches him bouncing his eyes to Mickey ten times more often than to Ian, and every time he cracks a joke, he always checks to see whether Mickey smiles.</p><p>“Like I said, we’re stoked to have you guys play our little game,” he’s saying, directing Ian and Mickey down the hall and to the right, into a small, five-row theater room. “If I have my facts straight, you’ve played it already, Mick?”</p><p>“Twice in the past week,” he intones, sounding bored out of his mind.</p><p>Ethan forces a smile at Mickey’s grumpiness. “Well, great,” he says awkwardly and takes out his phone.</p><p>He asks to snap a few pictures for the SneakAttack Instagram, and Ian and Mickey stand side-by-side but two feet apart against the theater wall. Mickey holds up the sign of the horns, his signature pose, and Ian does his best to smile without looking too goofy, the surreal nature of this experience suddenly hitting him in the chest.</p><p>Holy shit. He’s standing within touching distance of MICK MILK, and MICK’s doing his hand thing like Ian’s seen him do in so many of his photos with fans and even in one of his magazine spreads--the hot one where Mickey’s in a buffalo-check button-down with the sleeves cut off.</p><p><i>Maybe</i> he’s an asshole, and maybe Ian just called him a homophobic prick to his face and watched him devour a plate of food and a giant slice of chocolate pie, but whatever. He allows himself a moment of feeling like a fanboy.</p><p>More of the SneakAttack guys filter into the room, one with a professional-grade camera, and the two of them are photographed a dozen times--several more side-by-side photos, plus solo shots of them each holding a copy of the game they’re about to play, <i>Gifted</i>. </p><p>At one point, Ian is presented with his prize--<i>holy fuck</i>--a PlayStation 5, a $100 gift card to the PlayStation Store, and four of SneakAttack’s best selling games. He actually can’t help himself from smiling like a goofball during those pictures, and his cheeks heat when he imagines checking SneakAttack’s Instagram later on to see him looking like an absolute nerd.</p><p>After the awkward photo op, Ian and Mickey are directed to a pair of seats in the middle of the top row of the theater. There’s an empty seat in between them, and Mickey obnoxiously uses his right hand to push the seat down and up as the two of them wait for the tech guys to finish setting up the game and projector.</p><p>They don’t really talk to each other. Ian’s a half-second away from smacking Mickey’s hand to stop him from messing with the seat, but he restrains himself, pulling out his phone and taking a couple pictures of the theater, instead.</p><p>As they wait, the room begins to fill out a bit, Mo and the security guy stepping in and the rest of the SneakAttack team plus the two Monster reps grabbing seats near the front, settling in to watch the game.</p><p>Ian’s heart begins to pound as the projector flashes on, revealing a graveyard-themed menu screen with a crow flying around. He’s suddenly unbearably nervous, his palms sweaty and forehead warm.</p><p>This is made even worse when, rather than being handed an Xbox controller, he and Mickey are given two white PlayStation 4 controllers. Ian doesn’t think he’s ever played a PlayStation in his life, and he frantically tries to memorize the buttons--X,  triangle, circle, square, X, triangle, circle, square. He rolls his thumbs against the joysticks nervously, blowing out a breath when the game audio pops on through the surround-sound speakers.</p><p>“Wanna chill there, man?” Mickey asks him, and Ian’s heart sinks into his belly when he realizes he’s been acting like a fucking tweaker.</p><p>“Not really used to the PlayStation,” he confesses, rubbing his fingers against the right and left trigger buttons. “Kinda an Xbox guy.”</p><p>Mickey shrugs, eyes to the screen ahead, and begins fiddling with the settings in the menu screen, adjusting the brightness and subtitle options. “This game’s easy as shit. Don’t worry about it.”</p><p>“Yeah, okay.” Ian swallows and bites his lip as the lights dim.</p><p>---</p><p>Ian’s lucky he watched Mickey’s Let’s Play of <i>Man of Medan</i>, as the game format is similar--a short-form horror story consisting of four rotating POV characters and player choice options that shape the course of the story.</p><p>In co-op mode, Ian and Mickey each control two characters: Luke and Savannah, Miller and Kate--four college students with the ability to absorb energy from people and objects, allowing them to read their pasts and futures.</p><p>It’s mostly a serial killer game rather than a ghost story, the overall objective being to investigate various creepy locations on the teens’ Spring Break camping trip in a Washington State forest, evading a hidden enemy and tracking down the murderer. </p><p>And Ian, well. Ian absolutely sucks.</p><p>From watching Mickey’s Let’s Plays, he gets the general gist of quick time events, knowing he has to hit the prompted button before the timer on the screen runs out. The problem is that he’s familiar with A, X, Y and B, not the X, triangle, circle, and square on the PlayStation controller. He misses half the quick time prompts and ends up barely keeping his characters alive for long enough for the story to develop.</p><p>To his credit, Mickey actually isn’t a massive prick about it at first, though Ian hears him get a little huffy when Ian smashes square instead of circle and sends Luke down an exposed sewer.</p><p>He gives a tiny <i>ch</i> sound, and Ian flits his eyes toward him for long enough to catch him rolling his eyes, his lips twisted in a way that could be a burgeoning smile or could be an annoyed scowl.</p><p>When the character POV shifts to Miller or Kate, Mickey plays as if he’s bored as fuck and as deftly as if he knows the quick time event prompts by heart. He doesn’t miss a single button, and by half an hour into the game, both of his characters are thriving--strong and brave--while Luke’s being stalked through a sewer pipe and Savannah’s got a bandaged hand because Ian couldn’t press the right sequence of buttons frequently enough to keep her from cutting herself while she sawed at a rope.</p><p>So far, Ian’s the only one who’s gotten jumpscares, Miller and Kate staying safe and sound while imposing shadows keep creeping up on Ian’s characters.</p><p>And the worst part about it is that he jumps like a little girl every goddamned time, jerking awkwardly in his seat. </p><p>Each time he does it, there’s another little puff of air coming from his left, and Ian’s fairly certain Mickey’s laughing at him.</p><p>He finally breaks their tense, near-silent gameplay by asking, “Why the fuck am I gettin’ this shit and Miller and Kate are skipping in the fuckin’ daisy fields?”</p><p>“‘cause you suck,” Mickey says matter-of-factly, and Ian turns his head to look at him, somehow shocked by that even though the guy’s already told him to fuck off multiple times.</p><p>Mickey simply shrugs and gestures toward the screen. “It’s a game about fear, man. Your characters are scared shitless ‘cause you keep hittin’ the wrong buttons, so creepy shit keeps happening. Their subconscious or whatever. And you’re not takin’ advantage of their abilities. You’re supposed to read the energy of all the items you find. They give you clues so you know what choices to make.”</p><p>Ian tenses his jaw irritably. “Shut up,” he says, petulant, moving Luke slowly along a gloriously empty sewer pipe. He hears Mickey snicker beside him.</p><p>After Ian’s frustrated outburst, the mood of the entire experience shifts, veering away from its awkward, uncomfortable beginning toward something a little lighter.</p><p>Ian continues to suck, but he <i>does</i> start paying closer attention to the energy reads on his found items, allowing him to make better choices when prompted. </p><p>Mickey continues to rib Ian’s skills, at one point asking, “Have you ever actually played a video game before? I swear to God, we’re gettin’ the worst ending.”</p><p>Feeling brave and pushing past the frantic nervous energy in his bones, Ian flips him off. “No fair. You already know what happens.”</p><p>“You’ve made every wrong choice you can possibly make, man. I’ve played this game twice, and I somehow have no fuckin’ clue where it’s goin’ right now. Wouldn’t be surprised if you got us trampled to death by a fuckin’ unicorn.” </p><p>“You don’t know anything, then, so shut up and let me play.”</p><p>Mickey snorts, and Ian hears him whisper, “Well fuck you, too” under his breath. </p><p>All in all, the game is about four hours long. Half-way in, when the four characters are finally reunited after a harrowing first half in which they were each on their own, Mickey pauses the game for a break.</p><p>“You’re the worst,” he comments casually, standing from his seat and, without waiting on Ian, taking off toward the door leading out to the hallway.</p><p>With anyone else, Ian would assume the comment to be teasing, but Mickey doesn’t stick around long enough for him to know for sure.</p><p>Ian stands and awkwardly stretches, looking around the theater for something to do until Mickey returns. He goes to the bathroom, and he grabs a single-serving bag of Flamin’ Hot Doritos and a Mango Loco Monster from the mini-fridge set up at the back.</p><p>“You alright?” Mo calls to him, crossing the room so they can have a more private chat.</p><p>Ian purses his lips and blows out a breath, causing her to smile good-naturedly.</p><p>“Mickey’s a dick,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. “But he’s like a little brother.” </p><p>Ian takes a slow sip of his energy drink and wonders whether he’s about to get the fuckin’ shovel talk.</p><p>“I don’t know the whole story,” she continues, “but things didn’t look so good earlier.”</p><p>“Understatement.”</p><p>“Maybe.” Mo shrugs, and there’s a softness on her mouth that makes Ian’s heart slow. “He’s a good person, you know, even if he’s difficult to manage sometimes.” She uncrosses her arms and places her hands on her hips. “I’m not sure why he’s given you the impression that he’s at all homophobic.”</p><p>Ian parts his lips to speak, but she cuts him off.</p><p>“Like I said, I wouldn’t work for him if he weren’t the decent sort.” Mo smiles warmly and extends a hand, placing it on Ian’s shoulder. “Sorry if he pissed you off, mate. He does that. Often.”</p><p>Ian smiles then, pulled in by the comforting lull of her voice.</p><p>“But he’s a good egg. Needs to be cracked sometimes, but what can we do?”</p><p>She looks behind Ian’s shoulder and asks again, “What can we do, Mickey?”</p><p>Ian turns to catch him at the mini-fridge, pulling out a drink. He’s wearing a beanie now--his burgundy one with <i>Nightmare Hour</i> embroidered in white--and he looks like he’s gone to freshen himself up. The rolled cuffs of his sleeves have been re-done, even and smoothed, there’s the faintest wetness at the edges of his hair like he’s splashed water over his face, and his lips have the slightest bit of ChapStick sheen.</p><p>He cracks the tab of his Monster and takes an obnoxiously loud slurp.</p><p>“The fuck you talkin’ about?” he asks after a gulp, sidling up to Mo and, to Ian’s astonishment, tolerating a brief side-squeeze around the waist that she tosses out, hooking him in with her long arm and giving him a quick hip-bump.</p><p>His face is a mixture of grumpy and fond, like a five-year-old wiping away a spitty cheek kiss from a parent. After a second, he wiggles out of Mo’s embrace and saunters off again, slurping away at his energy drink as if the whole exchange had never happened.</p><p>---</p><p>Throughout the remainder of their half-hour break, Ian and Mickey take photos for the Monster guys, posing with their drinks, and at about 3:30, they settle into their seats to start back up the game.</p><p>Mickey’s grabbed a small bag of pork rinds from the snack basket, and he munches on them loudly while the tech guys work on re-dimming the lights and switching on the surround-sound speakers.</p><p>The second half of the game is much different in tone, the storyline seemingly focused more on the developing relationships between the characters than a frenzied, action-packed frightfest--at least from Ian’s point of view.</p><p>The four friends, reunited and committed to working together to take down their stalker, set off through the Washington forest, engaging in character-building conversations that allow Ian to put into practice some of the decision-making skills he learned from the first half.</p><p>Through the dialogue options, Ian gives Savannah an open, trusting heart that he thinks might boost her bravery character trait; with Luke, he focuses his attention on building up his relationship with Miller, choosing all the caring, emotional dialogue options and prompting Mickey to grumble, “You’re gonna turn him into a fuckin’ pussy.”</p><p>“I’m makin’ him a nice person.” The way Ian sees it, games typically reward kindness and positive relationships.</p><p>“Nice ain’t gonna help him beat the shit out of the stalker in a minute.”</p><p>Ian tilts his head toward Mickey and gives him an exasperated look. </p><p>Mickey rolls his eyes back.</p><p>When the POV shifts back to Miller, Mickey chooses the toughest dialogue options, turning what Ian had built up as a sweet dynamic into the one-sided love story of a sappy nerd and an unapproachable badass.</p><p>---</p><p>Ian wasn’t sure about the game at first, but the storyline actually becomes fairly interesting as it draws to a close. </p><p>Savannah dies the second a sense of physical danger is introduced, the stalker crushing her skull with a pipe wrench. At Ian’s confusion, Mickey grumbles, “Both your characters are gonna die, man. You fucked up too much at the beginning.”</p><p>“Luke’s gonna kick Miller’s ass.”</p><p>“Luke’s too much of a pussy to kick anybody’s ass.”</p><p>Luke almost gets his ass handed to him during a confrontation with the stalker.</p><p>Ian’s comfortability with quick time events is increasing, but he still looks down too much and occasionally gets the circle and square mixed up.</p><p>At one point, the stalker’s got Luke pinned and is moments away from chopping through his head with a meat cleaver.</p><p>Shaking with nerves, Ian taps the square too late, and Luke struggles, the stalker lowering the cleaver and slicing at his cheek.</p><p>“Gimme that,” Mickey demands, reaching across the empty seat between them and snatching Ian’s controller out of his hands.</p><p>“Watch it!” Ian complains, and Mickey murmurs, “Fuck you and watch <i>this</i>” as he deftly maneuvers Luke into a position of power and gets him out of the stalker’s clutches. The POV shifts back to Kate, then Miller, and Ian leans his elbow on the armrest and watches as Mickey successfully gets the crew out of harm’s way and safely into the next cut-scene.</p><p>He tosses back Ian’s controller. “You’re welcome.”</p><p>Ian scoffs and flips him off. “Thank you, All Great and Powerful Mickey, for saving me.”</p><p>“What you callin’ me ‘Mickey’ for?”</p><p>Fuck.</p><p>Ian cringes, his cheeks warming just a touch, and shrugs. “Mick. MICK-MILK-all-caps, whatever.”</p><p>Mickey makes a <i>ch</i> sound, a little laughter puff, and the two of them settle in to finish out the game.</p><p>---</p><p>Turns out, because Ian had played up the sappy dialogue options in Luke’s exchanges with Miller, a romance option becomes available.</p><p>It’s a graveyard scene--some weird time-travel, <i>energy from the past</i> thing--and Luke is sitting beside Miller on a large headstone as they talk about the burden their gifts have turned out to be.</p><p>“Do you ever wish you’d been born normal? In another place or time?” Miller asks, his voice shaky.</p><p>Ian is given the tone options for Luke’s response: <i>Sincere</i>    <i>Distant</i>    <i>Romantic</i>    <i>Pessimistic</i></p><p>He glances over at Mickey, who’s managed to procure a straw and is bent over the cup-holder, slurping his drink, eyes up and focused on the screen.</p><p>And there’s several reasons why he does it. First, because he simply wants Luke to be gay. Second, because he wants to rub it in Mickey’s face. And finally, because he wants to see what happens when he does--how Mickey will react with Miller, his forever-stoic badass.</p><p>He selects <i>Romantic</i>, prompting Luke to say, voice soft and nervous, “If I’d lived any other life, I wouldn’t be here with you.”</p><p>The POV shifts to Miller, and Ian watches, breath held, as Mickey scrolls through the tone options for his response, a thin blue line bouncing beneath <i>Critical</i>, <i>Neutral</i>, <i>Romantic</i>, and <i>Pensive</i> as he seems to deliberate.</p><p>Finally, Mickey blows out a sharp puff of breath and says, “I ain’t a fuckin’ homophobe, asshole.”</p><p>He chooses <i>Romantic</i>, and Ian and Mickey watch as Miller leans in close, close, closer, places his fingers beneath Luke’s chin, and pulls him in for a kiss.</p><p>“I hate sappy shit, though,” Mickey complains, and Ian can’t help but smile at him for the first time, eyes landing on a grumpy boy with a beanie pulled down nearly to his eyes--a boy slumped down in his chair, his legs propped up on the seatback in front of him.</p><p>---</p><p>Ten minutes later, Luke almost dies again during the final enemy confrontation, but Mickey lets Ian fight this one out on his own. Ian does his best, and though he misses enough QTEs for Luke to get a knife to the shoulder, he recovers nicely and manages to bring him out of the fight alive.</p><p>“Ha!” Ian yells, wiggling in his seat proudly. “No fuckin’ unicorns.”</p><p>“Don’t matter if the characters live or die, we’re still gettin’ the worst ending, man.”</p><p>Apparently, because of a series of unfortunate decisions Ian made early on in the game, Luke ends up trapped in some sort of time wrinkle, forever separating him from the rest of the group. Because Mickey had chosen the romance option for Miller, his last scene is in a graveyard, crying on his knees over the loss of Luke. Kate ends up attempting suicide over the death of her best friend Savannah, and one of the last shots of the game is her being wheeled into a treatment center.</p><p>“<i>Fuck</i>,” Mickey says emphatically once the credits begin to roll. “Told ya.”</p><p>Ian <i>hmm</i>s, thoughtful, and drains the rest of his Monster. “<i>Technically</i>, Luke’s still alive. There’s hope for him and Miller.”</p><p>“Luke’s stuck in a fuckin’ graveyard in 1972. Miller needs to move on to a dude that’s not a giant nerd-ass pussy.”</p><p>Something about the way he talks about that so casually makes Ian’s heart give a kick.</p><p>Shit.</p><p>He squeezes his empty drink can, crushing it, and leans back to idly watch the soothing scroll of the credits.</p><p>---</p><p>Once done, Ian and Mickey take more photos.</p><p>This time, Mo encourages Mickey to take some for his own Instagram account, so he hands her his phone and poses--sign of the horns style--with Ian, who crosses his arms over his chest and tries to look as cool as he can for an audience of four million.</p><p>They then take a couple with Ian’s phone, and then head out of the theater and back into the room where they’d had their lunch.</p><p>The sun is sinking in the sky, the noon brightness fading to a warm, six o’clock glow.</p><p>Mickey stands at the window, arms crossed, looking out at the city around them. </p><p>Surrounded by light, he’s nothing but a human-shaped shadow that Ian watches from a distance, thinking about Nightmare Maggie and Mo and even Mickey, himself, and how he doesn’t really seem all that homophobic, does he? </p><p>Mostly he seems like a nerdy kid pretending to be a badass, a grumbly, five-seven horror buff who <i>ch</i>s when he holds in a laugh and who so casually and naturally asserts that a fictional male character needs to get himself a boyfriend.</p><p>He’s certainly an asshole--Ian’s and Mickey’s session today going to great lengths to prove that--but he’d saved Luke from dying, even after calling him a pussy, and he’d been funny in his own way.</p><p>Ian blows out a breath through pursed lips and waits for someone to tell him what to do next.</p><p>---</p><p>Tom and Gerard, the SneakAttack guys Ian had met in the food line earlier, approach both Ian and Mickey and re-introduce themselves.</p><p>They’re marketing dudes, it’s easy to see, obvious in their voice and in the way they so calmly and casually ask a celebrity YouTuber to please make an Instagram post about the event that day.</p><p>Mickey, suddenly bored out of his mind, drops down in one of the chairs at a table and pulls out his phone, clearly viewing this as simply a stupid procedure--just part of the job--and something he must suffer through in order to reap the rewards of fame.</p><p>“Ian,” Gerard prompts, giving him a polite, exaggerated smile, “You’re under no obligation, but we’d love for you to tell your friends about your experiences today.”</p><p><i>You really wouldn’t, honestly,</i> Ian wants to say, a wry smile working its way onto his lips. Instead, however, he sits down at the table with Mickey and pulls up his own Instagram account. He only has eighty-six followers, so it’s not as if anything he posts is going to make a difference, but he still chooses one of the photos Mo had taken on his phone and adds a filter.</p><p>“If you’ll just tag SneakAttack Gaming, that would be perfect,” Tom requests, giving them a thumbs up.</p><p>Ian and Mickey work in silence for a minute, typing up their captions.</p><p>Ian’s chosen a picture of him and Mickey standing close, his hands in the pockets of his jeans and Mickey twisting up his face like he’s trying to be a badass. It’s not actually the best of the bunch, but Ian thinks Mickey looks cute, and he doesn’t hate the picture of himself, thinking he looks relatively casual and unbothered.</p><p>As he’s typing up his caption, singing the praises of SneakAttack and mostly thanking them for his prizes, he hears Mo call to Mickey from the doorway, “They just dropped off your luggage! Shall I have it delivered to your room?”</p><p>Mickey hops up quickly and goes to talk to Mo for a moment, and Ian turns his head in time to catch him rolling his eyes at her with a grin. She’s ribbing him about what she calls a <i>Drama Queen Moment</i> at the airport that morning, and Ian can’t help but smile to himself when he hears Mickey say, voice soft and fond, “Yeah, fuck you. I’m not a drama queen. Shut up.”</p><p>When Mickey returns to their table a minute later, Ian raises an eyebrow at him. “So you’re staying here?” he asks him, voice bright with curiosity. “I figured you’d get a room at The Four Seasons.”</p><p>Uptown360 is fancier than any place Ian’s ever stayed in his life, but even the fanciest rooms are only about $200 a night.</p><p>Mickey gives him a <i>so fuckin’ what?!</i> look and shrugs, picking up his phone and continuing to swipe around on it as he makes his social media posts.</p><p>“‘ey,” he says after a minute, the fact that he’s seemingly voluntarily talking to Ian surprising him into an embarrassing little jump. “What’s your name?”</p><p>Is he fucking serious? Ian’s stomach drops. </p><p>Great. Thank you so, so fucking much, Mickey, you asshole.</p><p>Mickey must catch the frustration on Ian’s face, as he rolls his eyes and clarifies, “Last name.”</p><p>With a placated sigh, Ian murmurs, “Gallagher,” then watches Mickey as he presumably types his name into the Instagram search bar.</p><p>Mickey pauses, taps his fingers twice on the sides of his white phone case as if perplexed, and says, “You ain’t even followin’ me.”</p><p>Ian smirks. “Whoops.”</p><p>Mickey goes back to typing away on his phone, and a minute later, Ian’s phone lights up with a notification that he’s been tagged in MICK MILK’s Instagram post. He swipes it open.</p><p>Mickey’s chosen a picture of the two of them staring, unsmilingly, at the camera like two members of an emo band posing for an album cover. Mickey looks great, of course, his eyes bright and blue and his lips pursed in a way that makes him look hot and pouty. Ian looks passably okay, his jaw a little tense but strong.</p><p>
  <i>just finished up my last co-op session of @SneakAttackGaming’s ‘gifted’! thanks a million to SneakAttack for being the best in the biz and some of the coolest guys i know. be sure to check out the game when it’s released 8/7!</i>
</p><p>The enthusiasm in the caption makes Ian snort, and Mickey looks up at him with a brow raised. Ian smirks, prompting Mickey to roll his eyes.</p><p>“So you gonna follow me?” he asks, and Ian sputters at it, leaning over and putting both elbows on the table. </p><p>“I dunno. You gonna follow <i>me</i>?”</p><p>The exaggerated <i>what the fuck</i> expression on Mickey’s face makes Ian want to laugh, a bubble of glee expanding in his upper chest and threatening to burst.</p><p>“I don’t even know you,” Mickey says, voice carrying with it a boredom that can’t help but seem forced.</p><p>Ian shrugs. “I don’t even know <i>you</i>. You ain’t special.”</p><p>Mickey does a terrible job of hiding his surprise, his eyes widening, lips parting, and tongue darting out to press against his bottom lip.</p><p>“What the fuck?” he asks, voice soft like a whisper, and Ian preens, proud, knowing he’s got the motherfucker.</p><p>“What?” he murmurs, casual, trying his absolute hardest to hold back a smile.</p><p>Mickey’s eyes dart to the windows, then to the table-top, and he shrugs. “Fuck you,” he says, completely heatless, almost awkward in its lack of inflection like he’s embarrassed but trying not to show it.</p><p>Ian swipes a hand over his mouth, smearing away his smirk.</p><p>It’s in that moment that Mo returns, holding a key-card packet, her iPad, and her shoulder bag, like she’s ready to head out for the day.</p><p>“And this is where we part,” she says, crossing the floor to Ian, who stands from his seat, stretches, and grabs his backpack from the floor. </p><p>This is it, then. He nods, taking the key-card packet she hands him and then accepting her firm, businesslike handshake. </p><p>“It’s been a pleasure. Truly,” she says, and though it’s likely PR bullshit, it sounds genuine and kind. </p><p>She thanks Ian for coming, then pulls out her own iPhone in a periwinkle case and waves Mickey over. “Come here, Mr. Milk.”</p><p>Mickey flips her off but stands, sauntering over like he’s got all day.</p><p>“Give us a smile,” she intones, knowing she’s being a pest, and Mickey does the exact opposite, positively scowling as she snaps a photo of him and Ian. </p><p>“Lovely to meet you, Ian.” Mo slides her phone into her back pocket. “If there are any problems with your room, please contact the front desk. Our sponsors are covering room service dinner and breakfast, but extras will need to be paid for separately.” She smiles and nods toward the two of them. “Let me know when you’re ready, and I’ll have David take you to your room.”</p><p>Ian glances at Mickey, who’s scratching the back of his neck.</p><p>He’s ready to go now, really, as it’s not like Mickey’s got anything profound to say to him. </p><p>Ian tilts his head in his direction. “Thanks, I guess,” he says, absentmindedly tugging at the straps of his backpack.</p><p>“You guess?”</p><p>Ian shrugs. “I mean. Yeah.”</p><p>Mickey rolls his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest, and Ian can see the veins running along his forearms. He slides his eyes up to Mickey’s, which have unclouded a bit from earlier but still hold the faint redness at the corners.</p><p>“You really should follow me on Instagram,” he says, allowing his lips to upturn in an easy smile. “I have a great account.”</p><p>Mickey <i>chh</i>s and breaks eye contact for a moment, looking off into the distance before returning to watch Ian’s face. “You want a so-called ‘homophobe’ to follow your gay ass on Instagram?”</p><p>Ian shrugs, unbothered. “Sure,” he challenges. “You might learn a thing or two.”</p><p>He watches Mickey’s face, waiting for a reaction, heart racing at his own boldness.</p><p>He’d gone into this thing wanting either to tell Mickey to kindly fuck off or to figure out what makes him tick. Ian’s happily done the first, but he can’t help but continue on to the second, intrigued as hell by this infuriating boy.</p><p>In response, Mickey darts his eyes away again--fast, fast--then back, and Ian senses an anxious thrum beneath his bones. He fidgets, like he’s nervous, and sucks on his bottom lip.</p><p>And just when Ian thinks he’s not going to answer--just when he’s about to say goodbye and go to meet Mo by the entrance, Mickey says, voice low, “Seriously doubt there’s something I don’t already know.”</p><p>Air rushes out of Ian’s lungs in a <i>whoosh</i>, leaving him stunned, still, sucking in a shaky breath.</p><p>Wait.</p><p>He doesn’t know how to interpret that. Did Mickey just imply he’s gay? Or was he just being his regular arrogant bastard self, claiming a wealth of knowledge beyond what Ian’s Instagram account could offer him?</p><p>Ian studies his face--his soft, nervous face quickly hardening beneath Ian’s gaze.</p><p>He doesn’t know what to say to that, afraid whatever he says will be the wrong thing--will be an indication that he’s interpreted it incorrectly.</p><p>But really, the gay thing makes sense, doesn’t it? Nightmare Maggie. Mo. Even Mickey’s casual use of <i>faggot</i> to someone he already knew to be gay. Not that it was okay for him to say it the way he said it, and not that he hadn’t been a mean, conceited dick in the first place. But well, everything sort of <i>fits</i>, and Ian’s left gaping at Mickey, not knowing what to believe.</p><p>Mickey simply shrugs and raises his hand in a wave.</p><p>“See ya,” he says, wandering off.</p><p>Ian blinks.</p><p>---</p><p>The security guy, David, helps him maneuver his heavy prize bags to his room by way of riding with him back down to the lobby, moving with him to one of the regular elevators, and following him up to the twenty-second floor.</p><p>Ian knows his secret secondary function is to escort the contest winners so they don’t try to stalk Mickey, but he isn’t offended. He goes along with it like a good little fan, lets David set his new PlayStation on the hotel room floor near the entrance, and thanks him politely as he goes, imagining him getting on his walkie in the elevator and alerting Mo that Mickey’s now free to leave the conference floor.</p><p>Fuck.</p><p>Ian places his hands on his hips, closes and locks the front door, and looks around.</p><p>To put it mildly, it’s the coolest place he’s ever been able to stay. The hotel’s fancy, but it isn’t marble-and-mahogany fancy. It’s clean, stainless steel, funky, brightly-colored furniture, and white bedding with chartreuse and teal pillows fancy.</p><p>Feeling a bit like a rambunctious child, Ian runs and leaps onto the bed, bouncing on the mattress and burying his upper body in the mound of pillows. Chuckling, he climbs back off the bed and moves over to the wall nearby, which is essentially one giant window.</p><p>He presses his forehead to the glass and peers down at the city streets below.</p><p>He’s nineteen years old, has lived in Chicago all his life, but he’s somehow never been exactly here. There were field trips in grade school that Fiona was able to scrounge money for him to attend. He’s been just once to an observation deck, and he’s been to a couple rooftop restaurants when he was working at The White Swallow and let some older men he met take him out in exchange for cash.</p><p>Ian’s never been on the twenty-second floor of a hotel like this, at least not alone, and at least not for the sole purpose of relaxing and sleeping. He blows out a breath, watching the window fog up, and smiles.</p><p>What a weird fucking day.</p><p>He’s just hung out with a celebrity millionaire for six hours, learned that he may or may not be secretly (?) gay, had his photo taken and posted on the social media accounts of major companies, was gifted a PlayStation 5 prior to its commercial release, and is now standing in a trendy hotel room, looking out onto the city he’s known since birth but has never had a chance to experience in its entirety.</p><p>Shit.</p><p>Ian takes out his phone, snaps pictures of his hotel room and out the window, and sends them to the Gallagher group chat. He then spends several minutes poking around the hotel room, grabbing a complimentary Snicker’s bar from the candy tray and munching it as he checks out the bathroom, with its garden tub complete with massage jets, the shower with a shampoo and conditioner dispenser, and the entire skincare gift set displayed on the counter by the sink.</p><p>Once satisfied he’s investigated everything, Ian takes off his pants and stretches out on the bed in his boxers, perusing the room service menu for later and idly watching the premium cable channel he has displayed on the wall-mounted TV.</p><p>A few minutes later, while he’s deciding between shrimp scampi and lobster thermidor, his phone chimes with a follow notification on Instagram.</p><p>Oh, fuck. His heart pounds, <i>knowing</i> Mickey’s followed him, that he’s gay and he followed him and Ian’s going to be sort-of friends with a fucking asshole celebrity who’s also rich and hot and--</p><p>He swipes open Instagram and sees that he has not one but thirty-seven new followers.</p><p>None of them are Mickey. Several of them, however, have usernames referencing MICK MILK or Nightmare Hour, and about half of them have photos of Mickey as their profile picture.</p><p>Curious, Ian heads over to Mickey’s account and sees that the picture Mickey had tagged him in has several hundred comments. Ian can’t help but grin proudly when he sees that the top comment is <i>wait why are they both so hot</i> 🔥🔥.</p><p>Pursing his lips and blowing out a breath, Ian likes Mickey’s photo and then swipes over to his own post that he’d made earlier. The new people following him are liking and commenting on it, telling him he’s <i>lucky af</i> and asking him what MICK MILK is like in real life.</p><p>Ian considers engaging, feeling a jolt of energy and excitement at the attention, but changes his mind when he realizes that he has no idea how he would even answer that question.</p><p>What’s he like in real life? Abrasive. A little mean. The most interesting person Ian’s ever met.</p><p>He zooms in on his own Instagram post with Mickey, eyes wandering over Mickey’s cute-ass scrunchy face. He bites his lip.</p><p>Ian hadn’t tagged Mickey in the photo when he first posted it, feeling awkward about doing it while he was in front of him. But why not? Why <i>wouldn’t</i> he tag him? Mickey tagged Ian in his.</p><p>Ian taps the dots to edit the post and then searches up MICK MILK, tagging him right over his face.</p><p>He’s aware that more people are probably going to follow him now, as he remembers from his short time on Twitter that fans would regularly check MICK’s tagged photos, searching for new ones to post.</p><p>But it’s fine. Ian locks his phone, tosses it onto the bed beside him, and leans back into the pillows.</p><p>Not five minutes later, his phone chimes.</p><p>He has a direct message request.</p><p>Casually swiping open the notification, Ian expects it to be a MICK MILK fan, asking about his experiences or wanting some insider information on the object of their affection. He’s gotten several since he single-handedly started a minor cancellation campaign, and he’s never replied to any of them, simply deleting them from his request box.</p><p>And he does have a message from a fan. Her name’s MICKEY BEAR, and she writes, <i>hello hello! i’m so happy for you that you got to meet mick, can you tlel me about him, i am his biggest fan :) :)</i></p><p>Ian deletes the request, leading him to the second message in his request box--one that makes him cover his face with the front of his shirt for a moment, heart leaping and skin sizzling with nerves.</p><p>It’s from MICK MILK, little blue check and all. </p><p>Holy shit.</p><p>Holy fucking shit.</p><p>Ian opens <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/13b668b32025718fc57cd062a3b72752/088003cad5577d3b-dc/s640x960/56feb25c69b2d6208ec2ce34f79aae9737c5aa44.jpg">the message</a> at lightning speed.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>MICK MILK:</b> so are you gonna follow me or not?</p><p>------------------------</p><p>No way. He can’t believe this.</p><p>Ian bites the insides of his cheeks to hold back the face-splitting grin threatening to burst forth.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian Gallagher:</b> Or not</p><p><b>MICK MILK:</b> wtf. why?</p><p><b>Ian Gallagher:</b> I only follow people I know and like</p><p><b>MICK MILK:</b> fuck you too</p><p><b>Ian Gallagher:</b> ✌️</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Kicking MICK MILK where it hurts--namely, his ego--sends a thrill down Ian’s spine. It must do the same for Mickey somehow, because he simply keeps messaging him.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>MICK MILK:</b> enjoying your room?</p><p><b>Ian Gallagher:</b> Love it</p><p><b>MICK MILK:</b> cool</p><p><b>Ian Gallagher:</b> <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/e3f7de1c6b114c16529d38127bffe24f/aa9993c3aad9bfa8-84/s640x960/a971224ce4467eed95a205d07d5bd02f5d5cadc9.jpg">Yeah</a></p><p>------------------------</p><p><i>Did you mean that you’re gay? Like is that what you were implying by the ‘something I don’t already know’ thing?</i> Ian desperately wants to ask.</p><p>
  <i>It’s okay if you’re gay. You can tell me. I promise I’ll keep your secret.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Honestly, it would make me feel better to know that you’re gay. Not because it would make me feel validated in my attraction to you but because it would invalidate a lot of the reasons why a part of me wants to punch you in the face.</i>
</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>MICK MILK:</b> what are you doing right now?</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Ian’s heart stops. At first, he misreads it as <i>what are you wearing right now?</i> and feels a surge of nausea so strong he thinks he might puke.</p><p>Still, even once he figures out what it actually says, he thinks his heart might be trying to beat its way out of his chest cavity.</p><p>There’s something so…<i>erotic magazine</i> about the way it reads, like the beginning of a story about a phone sex session Ian would’ve read in one of the gay pornos he stole from a sex shop when he was fourteen.</p><p>He exhales slowly, trying to gather his courage.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian Gallagher:</b> Talking to you. What are YOU doing right now?</p><p><b>MICK MILK:</b> fuckin bored </p><p>------------------------</p><p>He’s <i>totally</i> hinting. He’s not even being subtle.</p><p>Right?</p><p>Is this how celebrity-fan hookups happen? Or is Ian just reading too much into Mickey’s messages? He’s not really giving him a lot to go on, but well, maybe that’s his angle.</p><p>Ian waits for a long enough period of time that Mickey’s probably assumed he’s not going to reply. His brain is abuzz, and he’s weighing his options, struggling over a final decision.</p><p>Should he just go for it? What’s the worst that could happen if he did? It’s not like he and Mickey are friends or are in any type of even semi-regular contact with each other. If Ian tries it and Mickey turns him down, he can simply never contact him again, and he wouldn’t have to worry about anything.</p><p>Fuck. But does he want to deal with the embarrassment? Does he want to hook up his new PS5 and think about this awkward-as-shit encounter every time he boots up a game? Does he want to pretend everything’s fine when he tells his family about the co-op session over dinner?</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>MICK MILK:</b> are you bored?</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Ian thinks he might die.</p><p>Fuck. Fuck it.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian Gallagher:</b> Do you want some company?</p><p>------------------------</p><p>It’s a line, and it’s obvious, leaving no room for mistaking what he means. Mickey can take it or leave it.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>MICK MILK:</b> room 2402.</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Shit. He took it.</p><p>Ian scrambles off his bed and pulls on his jeans.</p><p>He grabs his wallet--leafs through it. Condom? Yes. Check. Unexpired. Celebrities have STDs and shit, right? Don’t groupies always get chlamydia?</p><p>Is that what Ian is? Is he going to be a groupie? Is it considered a groupie if you don’t follow the celebrity around and wait for them at stage doors? Is it considered a groupie if you’re a dude? What if it’s just once?</p><p>Holy fuck.</p><p>Ian runs to the bathroom, combs through his hair with his fingers, pees, and washes his hands.</p><p>He didn’t bring any cologne. Honestly, he’d just thrown a different T-shirt, a pair of boxers, his pill box, and his toiletry pouch in his backpack and called it a day.</p><p>Should he wash his armpits? His dick? What if Mickey’s a top and wants to fuck him? Is he going to let him? He’s never really done that shit before. </p><p>Aren’t you supposed to like, <i>do things</i> to yourself before bottoming? Or no? </p><p>Ian blows out a breath and switches off the bathroom light. </p><p>It’s 7:42. Will he be staying the night with Mickey? Should he bring his backpack? What about his meds? He’s due to take them with his dinner.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>MICK MILK:</b> so?</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Shit. Ian hadn’t replied.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian Gallagher:</b> <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/0aed7ee7690b6df6d243de1ecb004c5e/4cdbd4ef181650c1-f6/s640x960/79aee2aa243999785c69963be13cd713ad329c90.jpg">Omw</a></p><p>------------------------</p><p>Deciding he’ll take the reasonable, strong approach to the encounter and dip out when they’re done, Ian leaves his pill box on the table, slides his phone in one pocket and his key-card in the other, and heads out.</p><p>---</p><p>The 24th floor houses the penthouse suites, and there are only two total rooms--one on either side.</p><p>Ian takes a deep breath, steeling himself, before he knocks three times on the door to 2402.</p><p>Ian hears <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yqWad73BGPI">music</a> playing faintly through the door, and when Mickey doesn’t come, he knocks again, a little louder this time.</p><p>The music cuts. Ian hears the soft padding of feet on carpet, and then both a chain being removed and a deadbolt being unlocked.</p><p>And he’s expecting to find Mickey still dressed in his floral shirt with his slim-fit jeans and boots. What he finds instead nearly leaves him drooling in the doorway of the penthouse suite.</p><p><a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/275a31c1b929e0cdc23ee97d70910bb4/a3dadbfc7c04d1c4-a5/s640x960/1b7f18d52cd3241448ca35a6edef6ce67b98602b.jpg">Mickey’s got on</a> one of his older merch shirts--a vintage-style heather gray one with a very 80s-style neon pink MICK MILK printed over a black circle. There’s a hole in the neck seam, and it looks like he’s taken a pair of scissors to the sleeves, making it into a tank top. On the bottom, he’s wearing a pair of black Adidas track pants with the white stripes down the sides, and he’s got on simple gray athletic-style socks.</p><p>Though it’s only been a little over an hour since Ian last saw him, Mickey looks like he’s already settled down for the night, his demeanor having shifted into something a little softer and cozier than how he’d been when he’d told Ian <i>see ya</i>.</p><p>“‘ey,” he greets, stepping to the side to allow Ian to enter the room.</p><p>And what is there to say about it?</p><p>It’s larger than every room in the Gallagher house combined, and it’s basically the size of five of Ian’s hotel rooms. There’s a giant-ass bed and a pool table. There’s a jacuzzi and an entire wall full of windows overlooking the city lights. To the far left is a full-size living room, with immaculate white furniture and a complete entertainment system. Mickey apparently called for room service earlier, as there are four covered platters on a table by the windows.</p><p>“Holy shit,” Ian comments, crossing his arms over his chest as he walks around the space, unashamedly checking it out like a little boy in a toy store.</p><p>Mickey just watches him, letting him do it.</p><p>“What do you even need all this space for?” Ian asks, turning to look at him, feeling a bit like a goofy, inexperienced kid. “My entire family could live here, and we’d still have room to spare.”</p><p>Mickey shrugs and moves over to the bed.</p><p>Things go awkward for a moment. Quiet. Ian looks around, sees a Bose bluetooth speaker set up on the nightstand and Mickey’s phone lying beside it.</p><p>He scans his eyes over the bed with its crisp white comforter. Sees a familiar foil packet and a tube of lube lying in the middle of the mattress.</p><p>Ian swallows. Shit. Okay.</p><p><i>Okay</i>.</p><p>Part of him had been preparing for it to have all been a misunderstanding--Mickey simply wanting to hang out and watch TV or something. Maybe play some video games. </p><p>But unless he’s planning on having some company over later, Ian takes it his first impression was accurate.</p><p>Slowly, he makes his way toward the bed and Mickey, who’s fidgeting over by the foot of it, fingers playing with the waistband of his pants.</p><p>Ian thinks he might throw up.</p><p>He feels a tiny little rush of blood to his cock at the thought of what he’s about to do, and shit, he really hopes he’s not reading this wrong.</p><p>It suddenly occurs to Ian that Mickey hasn’t said anything but “‘ey” since he arrived, so he thinks of something to say as he approaches--a question to ask.</p><p>His heart stutters, and his breath quickens, and fuck him, the only thing that comes out is, “So you’re not actually a homophobe, huh?”</p><p>Stupid. <i>Stupid</i>.</p><p>He would do a full-on Homer Simpson d’oh! if he weren’t afraid of embarrassing himself even further.</p><p>Mickey rolls his eyes and sighs at him, exasperated, like Ian’s the most annoying motherfucker alive, and turns around to face the headboard. He sticks his thumbs in the top of his pants and says, “Definitely not a fuckin’ homophobe. Ya gonna get on me or what?” as he pulls them down to his thighs, exposing his ass.</p><p>Holy shit.</p><p><i>Holy fucking shit</i>.</p><p>Ian’s looking at MICK MILK’s ass--his really cute, pale ass.</p><p>“Um,” he says, just that. He pauses, leans over the bed, and scrambles for the lube and condom. “Yes. I will. I am.”</p><p>Guess they’re getting right down to it.</p><p>Which is fine.</p><p>Ian huffs, skin alight with embarrassment, and works on undoing his jeans. He pulls them and his boxers down to his thighs and touches at the hem of his V-neck, considering removing it.</p><p>But well, Mickey’s still wearing his shirt--and honestly, he’s 99% clothed, just his ass and presumably his dick out--so Ian foregoes the awkwardness of being half-naked with a fully dressed celebrity and reaches out to touch Mickey’s hips, instead. </p><p>“Holy fuck,” Mickey complains, jerking just a bit. “You fuckin’ dead or somethin’? Your hands feel like you’ve been in a freezer.”</p><p>“Sorry. <i>Sorry</i>.” Hurriedly, Ian blows hot breath onto his palms, then rubs them against his jeans, trying to heat them with friction. He places them tentatively back against Mickey’s skin.</p><p>He’s soft and smooth, just the tiniest bit of blondish peach fuzz at his sacrum gleaming in the overhead light. Ian wants to lean down and kiss him a little, if only because he likes kissing and if only because he wants to make Mickey feel good.</p><p>But Mickey wiggles his ass impatiently, and Ian can hear in his breath that he’s about to tell him to hurry it the fuck up.</p><p>Okay. Fine. Cool. To the task at hand.</p><p>With shaking fingers, Ian masturbates for about twenty seconds, staring at the dimples on the sides of Mickey’s ass and bringing himself to full hardness, then tears open the foil condom packet.</p><p>It’s a lubed Bareskin, and it takes him an awkward, slippery several seconds to get it out of the package and onto his dick, almost putting it on inside out at first like a goddamned virgin.</p><p>He wants to tell Mickey, <i>I swear to God I’ve had sex before. Just give me a second.</i> Mickey makes a grumbly little noise and leans over like he’s tired, forehead resting against his folded arms on the bed and sending his body into a ninety degree angle.</p><p>It exposes his ass all the more, and Ian swallows hard at the sight, in disbelief over what he’s seeing--what he’s having the <i>opportunity</i> to see: MICK MILK, celebrity YouTuber, with his pants half-way to his knees, his ass and his balls and the wispy hairs on the backs of his thighs all just...there.</p><p>“Sorry,” Ian apologizes, realizing he’s staring, wiping the greasy condom lube on his jeans and grabbing up the tube of Astroglide. “Do you need me to uh,” he starts, opening the tube with a plasticky <i>crack</i> and squirting a dollop onto his fingertips. “Like. Prep you or.”</p><p>Mickey sighs. “I don’t need a fuckin’ prostate exam, man, but don’t just cram your dick in dry.”</p><p>Ian knows he’s being weird. <i>Obviously</i> an asshole needs to be prepped for sex. Of course. But this is like, MICK MILK, and prepping involves sticking your fingers inside somebody, and somehow that feels so much more intimate than getting his dick in.</p><p>He rubs his fingers together, smearing the lube, and slowly slides two fingers between Mickey’s cheeks, stroking around to find his hole.</p><p>Okay. <i>Okay</i>. Holy shit. This is happening.</p><p>Mickey’s warm--as any human would be--and he’s got fuzz there that’s somehow both soft and prickly. Ian blows out a breath and rubs the lube around for a minute before gently easing in his middle finger.</p><p>Mickey makes an <i>uh</i> sound, all breath, and Ian works his finger in and out, trying not to faint, trying to breathe.</p><p>He’s tight, but not alarmingly so, maybe just like it’s been a while. Ian’s breath goes noisy as he feels the hot sponginess of his inner walls. </p><p>How is this possible? How is he doing this right now?</p><p>MICK MILK with the patterned shirts buttoned to the collar and the earrings and the attitude. Ian’s got his finger <i>inside</i> him.</p><p>Shit.</p><p>When Mickey seems good to go, Ian slides in a second finger, panting and flushing all the while, then after a minute a third. He can’t help but bend his head and look at his own dick, which is stiff to the point of being able to hang a coat and giving a jerk every now and again.</p><p>He works his fingers in and out of Mickey, and Mickey’s letting out these gentle little moans, all breath, all soft and sweet. Ian's breath ramps up until he can hear a tiny wheeze every time he exhales.</p><p>“Okay, okay,” Mickey says suddenly when Ian’s distracted, sort of, focusing on and practically hypnotized by the wet <i>squelch</i> sound of his lubed fingers moving in and out of Mickey’s body. His <i>body</i>. </p><p>“Get the fuck on me.”</p><p>Ian nods and, realizing Mickey can’t see him, murmurs, “Okay. Sure. Yeah.” </p><p>He removes his fingers, wipes them inelegantly on the comforter, and takes himself in hand.</p><p>And well, he doesn’t know what he was expecting to happen. </p><p>He should’ve known. He should’ve warned Mickey, maybe, that it’s been about six months since he’s done this at all, about a year and a half since he’s done this for longer than a twenty-minute Grindr hook-up in the backseat of a car, and about three years since he’s done this with someone he was both attracted to and had spoken to beforehand.</p><p>Ian lubes his dick, and he rests a hand on the bed beside Mickey’s hip for leverage, and he pushes in.</p><p>And maybe he should be a little proud of himself for actually lasting long enough to get Mickey moaning a bit.</p><p>Because <i>fuck</i>, he’s tight, and the thought that a piece of Ian’s body is inside Mickey’s body makes Ian nearly lose it. This guy. This guy he’s been crushing over for <i>months</i>, even when he’d thought he was an asshole. He’s <i>in</i> him.</p><p>Oh God.</p><p>“Shit,” Mickey hisses once Ian’s all the way in, and Ian moans at the thought of MICK MILK being impressed by the size of him--of him feeling pleasantly full and stretched and fucking <i>good</i> because of it.</p><p>Ian takes Mickey by the hips and begins a slow, grinding thrust, bending forward to rest his forehead briefly against the back of Mickey’s shirt and smelling laundry detergent and warmth and the faint scent of sweat like he’s worn this shirt to bed a couple times without washing it.</p><p>“Fuck,” Ian groans, dragging Mickey’s hips backward, pushing and pulling him in a gentle rocking motion as he works his hips.</p><p>Mickey must like being handled like that, as he moans, soft, soft like he’s trying to hold back but can’t, and Ian can’t help but touch his mouth to Mickey’s shirt and breathe hot breath against the fabric.</p><p>“Fuck me,” Mickey murmurs, and Ian straightens and goes at it, pulling on his hips and thrusting hard enough that he hears the slap of skin against skin, and this, <i>this</i> is where it starts to go downhill, Ian looking up and realizing that he can see the reflection of Mickey’s face in the chrome lamp on the nightstand. Even in its distorted form, he can see him gritting his teeth and squeezing his eyes shut, and then there are the moans, which rise a bit, higher, louder, as Ian pants and sweats his way through several more hard thrusts.</p><p>“Oh fuck,” he says suddenly, stilling his hips. Freezing. “Oh God. Oh no.”</p><p>“The fuck?”</p><p>Mickey reaches back and grabs at Ian’s thigh, pulling him in and trying to get him to move again, and that’s exactly what Ian <i>doesn’t</i> need, Mickey’s warm, sweaty palm against the back of his thigh, right under his ass.</p><p>“No,” he says again, pleading with his dick, and Mickey must think he’s talking to him because he immediately removes his hand and turns his head, a concerned look on his flushed face.</p><p>Ian bows then, wraps his arms around Mickey’s waist, and fucks into him for four solid seconds before coming like a fifteen-year-old having his first sexual experience.</p><p>He groans through it, trying to muffle his sounds in the back of Mickey’s shirt, and to his credit, Mickey simply sighs and gets his hand on the back of Ian’s thigh, rubbing at it for a second as Ian pulses inside him, hips twitching through it.</p><p>When Ian’s done, he blows out a breath, touching his open mouth to the bit of skin exposed on Mickey’s back where his shirt’s ridden up.</p><p>He’s boneless, weak, pulse fluttering like hummingbird wings. No, no, no. Shit.</p><p>“Are you fuckin’ kidding me?” Mickey deadpans, voice solid and obviously frustrated. He wiggles his back. “Get off.”</p><p>Skin burning with embarrassment and shame, Ian straightens. “Sorry. Fuck,” he apologizes, grabbing the base of the condom and pulling out.</p><p>“Shit. Sorry. Sorry. You’re just...so hot.” Ian tugs off the condom and cringes at the sticky latex and his sticky, flushed dick. He awkwardly shuffles over to the trash can to toss it, jeans still around his knees, and then quickly pulls them up and tucks himself away as Mickey turns around on the bed and sits there at the edge.</p><p>Ian eyes his dick, which is about five and a half inches, pink and pretty and still hard, a sheen of pre-come at the tip. He’s got a full, dark bush of pubic hair, which surprises Ian for some reason, having always imagined famous people getting landscaped--waxed or lasered.</p><p>After a second, he realizes he’s blatantly staring and that Mickey’s watching him. Fuck. </p><p>He almost <i>does</i> Homer Simpson d’oh! then, eyes quickly dragging back up to Mickey’s face, but he’s cut off with--</p><p>“Are you a fuckin’ virgin?”</p><p>Humiliation floods Ian’s cheeks and chest--so much that he starts to sweat, not doing much to help his case. “No. <i>No</i>,” he asserts, fiddling with his zipper, looking for something to do with his hands.</p><p>Mickey gives him a look of incredulity, eyebrows raised.</p><p>Ian considers leaving. He does up his jeans and then plays with the hem of his shirt.</p><p>Mickey keeps staring at him, a look of absolute exasperated amusement slipping onto his features, like he thinks Ian is the dumbest son-of-a-bitch he’s ever been in a room with. That he’s ever <i>had sex</i> with.</p><p>Well, there really wasn’t that much sex going on so much as Ian getting himself off in two minutes using Mickey’s ass as a masturbatory aid.</p><p>“Um,” Ian starts, about to finish with, <i>I guess I’ll just go. Sorry again.</i> when Mickey gives him a <i>the fuck are you doing?!</i> look and asks, voice sharp, “You gonna get me off or what?”</p><p>“Shit.” </p><p>Ian nods immediately, hands going back to the button on his jeans before realizing Mickey probably didn’t mean <i>Will you get hard again, put on another condom, and fuck me?</i></p><p>“Do you want me to blow you?” he asks awkwardly, absolutely not in any way supporting his claim about not being a virgin.</p><p>Ian’s usually much smoother than this. Fuck, he’s <i>good</i> at sex. He’s been <i>paid</i> to do this shit. </p><p>But something about the fact that he’s alone in a massive hotel room with a millionaire celebrity he happens to have had a several months-long crush on is driving him to insanity.</p><p>“Whatever you want, man,” Mickey replies, bored, and Ian huffs a nervous breath and drops to his knees.</p><p>Mickey scoots to the very edge of the bed and spreads his legs, letting Ian kneel in-between.</p><p>He’s gone a little soft over the past few minutes, but when Ian gets his mouth on him, diving right in before he has a chance to embarrass himself again, he plumps back up nicely.</p><p>Ian hasn’t done this <i>that</i> much in his life, mostly having been on the receiving end with the exception of a few experiences, but he knows he’s at least passably okay. He takes the head of Mickey’s cock in his mouth and, with his right hand, grasps the bit of him that’s too much to take, starting up a slow, slurping drag and stroke.</p><p>“Shit,” Mickey whispers, and Ian exhales in a hard puff out his nose when he feels Mickey’s hands in his hair, rubbing almost tenderly through the strands and across his scalp.</p><p>Mickey tastes like skin and salt--exactly like other dicks Ian’s had in his mouth, nothing particularly uncommon or celebrified about him aside from the fact that he’s definitely cuter, definitely sexier than anyone Ian’s ever been with.</p><p>Holy <i>shit</i>. Mickey’s dick’s in his mouth.</p><p>Ian pauses for a second, free hand going to Mickey’s soft hip, listening to the breaths, the sounds, the creak of the mattress as Mickey shifts against it.</p><p>Mickey makes sweet noises, little hums and back-of-the-throat moans that drive Ian crazy, that make him pull his mouth off his dick and kiss at his thighs, nuzzle into his pubes just a bit, place tiny, sucking kisses along the side of his shaft. He slides both hands up Mickey’s thighs to his belly, works them under his shirt, and pushes him gently until Mickey leans back, stretching out on the bed and giving Ian more bare canvas with which to work.</p><p>Ian pushes up a bit, situating himself fully between Mickey’s legs, and hands-free gets his mouth back on him, sucking and licking and tonguing at his slit in a way that has Mickey touching his hands to Ian’s shoulders, to the back of his neck, squeezing at him like he’s massaging and scrabbling his bitten nails against the fabric of his T-shirt.</p><p>He starts to get a little huffy then, his pants louder and more forceful, the littlest bit of voice working its way into his usually-breathy moans. He’s close.</p><p>Ian knows it. He knows it not only from that but from the slightly sharper taste of him, the tiny pulse he feels against his tongue, and the way Mickey starts to draw his legs up to squeeze his knees around Ian’s shoulders.</p><p>“Fuck,” Mickey groans suddenly, pulling his hands off Ian’s neck and dragging them upward, mussing his hair in the process. “Gonna come. Shit.”</p><p>Ian’s hard again, his cock pressing painfully in his jeans. All he wants is to get inside him. To fuck him as he comes, to feel him squeeze around him.</p><p>“Hey, hey,” Mickey murmurs, voice soft but frantic, tugging a bit at Ian’s hair. “I’m gonna…”</p><p>It’s in this moment that Ian realizes he’s sucking the bare dick of a celebrity--no condom in sight. Holy fuck, he’s gonna get throat chlamydia. Or gonorrhea. </p><p>But still. Fuck. </p><p>Should he pull off? Absolutely.</p><p>Does he want to? No.</p><p>He’d like for Mickey to come in his mouth for a whole slew of reasons, many of them having to do with the fact that he sounds so <i>cute</i> right now, and Ian wants to make him feel as good as he can.</p><p>With an enormous amount of effort, however, he works up the strength to move his mouth away. He takes Mickey in hand and jerks him quickly, quickly until he spurts over Ian’s fist in three warm jets, the second of which shoots clear up Mickey’s body and gets him in a little pearly streak along the neck hem of his shirt.</p><p>Mickey makes these hot, breathy, keening noises as it happens, and he grips the comforter with both fists, squeezing in time with the pulses of his dick.</p><p>When he’s done, Ian drops back down to his knees and rests his forehead against Mickey’s thigh.</p><p>Holy shit.</p><p>He’s warm and sweaty, and Ian wants to drag his mouth there. To give him a kiss because he can.</p><p>He doesn’t.</p><p>Mickey groans, tired and satisfied, and Ian uses that as his cue to stand.</p><p>He gets to his feet, and Mickey, after lying there for just a moment more, gets up, pulls his track pants back up to his waist, and stretches.</p><p>“Shit.”</p><p>Ian blows out a breath. <i>Shit</i> is right.</p><p>He just had MICK MILK’s dick in his mouth. His <i>dick</i>.</p><p>He doesn’t know if his cheeks can possibly get any redder, but they sure as hell try, the burning beneath his eyes turning into a hot sting as he awkwardly shuffles around in place.</p><p>Mickey saunters over to the nightstand, grabs a tissue, and Ian watches--suddenly feeling out of place--as Mickey wipes at the bit of come on his shirt before pulling out two more tissues and walking them over to Ian.</p><p>Ian takes them, uses them to wipe off his fist, and bites his lip. He looks at the clock on the nightstand and sees he’s only been there for nineteen minutes. </p><p>Mickey’s just standing there now, close, all flushed and sweaty, sweet and satisfied looking, and he’s watching Ian’s face. </p><p>What if? What if he--</p><p>Ian leans in slowly, going for it because he’s a dumb fucking kid, and Mickey leans backward sharply, holding up a hand. “What the fuck are you doing?”</p><p>“Um.” Ian huffs a breath, mortified.</p><p>“Don’t fuckin’ kiss me,” Mickey says, voice hard, stepping around him and heading off toward a door that Ian assumes leads to the bathroom.</p><p>He doesn’t close the door, but Ian can’t see what he’s doing from where he stands. He hears enough to make a guess, though--the unrolling of toilet paper, followed a minute later by the faint woosh of the wadded up paper being tossed in the trash.</p><p>When Mickey returns, he’s adjusting his pants at his waist, and something on his face has shifted from what at one point seemed like a bit of amused exasperation to what is now bored frustration.</p><p>He looks like he means business, suddenly. Ian crosses his arms over his chest and considers a smooth way to make his embarrassed exit.</p><p>Mickey walks up to him and stops just inches from his chest. When Ian looks down, he sees the hardness of his beautiful blue eyes, his mouth, and Ian’s heart thuds, thump-thump. Nervous.</p><p>But all at once, as if miraculously, Mickey’s face softens just a touch, the corner of his mouth tilting upward into what Ian can only describe as a smirk.</p><p>“I swear to God,” he says, taking a step back and eyeing Ian up and down. “If you go on fuckin’ Twitter and claim I took your virginity, I will fuckin’ end you.”</p><p>“I’m not a virgin,” Ian quickly interjects. “I wasn’t before, either. I’m just…” He takes a deep breath. “It’s been a while, okay? And you’re… I dunno. You.”</p><p>“Whatever you say, man.” Mickey rolls his eyes, and Ian wilts at the fact that he clearly doesn’t believe him. At the fact that he will forever be known to Mickey as the embarrassing, awkward ginger virgin who came after two minutes of shallow thrusts and then tried to kiss him.</p><p>Ian watches as Mickey steps away and walks over to the table full of room-service dishes. He grabs a plate and pulls off the lid of the first, exposing what looks like gourmet chicken nuggets.</p><p>Feeling supremely awkward, his stomach twisting, Ian looks around. </p><p>“Okay,” he says, scratching at the back of his neck. “I’m gonna...go.”</p><p>Mickey looks up then, a funny little look crossing his face, and shrugs. “Yeah. Okay.” He picks up a fork and begins putting nuggets onto his plate, eyes wandering from Ian back to the platter. “See ya.”</p><p>Ian pauses for a moment, wondering if he should say something else. Wondering if he should apologize or thank him or ask him to forget it ever happened.</p><p>But when Mickey seems to be ignoring him, placing the lid back on the nugget platter and removing the lid of one filled with mac and cheese, Ian takes a deep breath and leaves.</p><p>---<br/>
---</p><p>He’s useless for the rest of the night.</p><p>When he returns to his room, Ian takes a shower, orders room service shrimp scampi and chocolate cake, and eats it while redownloading the Twitter app on his phone. He sits at the table and, between bites, searches for <i>mick milk groupie</i> and <i>mick milk sex</i> to see if anyone’s ever tweeted about having the kind of experience Ian’s just had.</p><p>He finds nothing. </p><p>He taps over to Mickey’s Twitter page and sees that though he hasn’t tweeted anything today, he’s been liking things--the most recent tweet having been posted just eighteen minutes ago.</p><p>Ian imagines him sitting on the bed in his cut-off tank top and track pants, scrolling through his Twitter timeline.</p><p>Shit.</p><p>Ian’s seen him half-naked. However briefly, Ian’s been <i>inside of him</i>. Ian’s sucked his dick.</p><p>He shovels in another mouthful of chocolate cake and grabs up the remote, flipping on the TV and trying not to lose his mind.</p><p>---</p><p>The next morning, Ian snuggles up with his blankets for as long as he can. He orders room service pancakes and eats them in bed while watching Saturday morning cartoons. He gets his phone and checks social media, reading and deleting a handful of message requests and then checking out the twenty-one new followers he’d gained overnight. </p><p>And then, about an hour before he needs to get up in order to not miss check-out, he watches Mickey’s most recent YouTube video.</p><p>It was uploaded the night before, likely scheduled ahead of time, and it’s the first hour of an uploaded Twitch VOD of Mickey’s playthrough of <i>Subnautica</i>, an underwater exploration-based game with a thread of weird alien and sea creature terror. </p><p>The game itself isn’t super fascinating to watch, as it’s mostly Mickey collecting items and using them to build things while protecting himself from predators, but Ian enjoys watching Mickey’s face as he talks survival strategy, likes the soothing tone of his voice, his pleased smile when he meets a cool new sea creature, and <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/1dcfdb55474bada9ac445053e284c487/f6e44fe6f770433e-78/s540x810/2fc33b1dd2c901407facff903577a259909b2ff7.jpg">his shirt with the tiny palm trees</a>.</p><p>About twenty minutes before Ian needs to get up, Mickey shifts his arm while directing his swimming character and accidentally knocks his FUCK U-UP mug off his desk.</p><p>Ian bites back a smile as he watches him pause the game, say, “Shit, shit, shit. <i>God</i>dammit,” and disappear for a minute before returning with a towel.</p><p>God, he’s cute.</p><p>God, Ian fucked him the night before. Not for very long, and apparently not very well, but he did eventually make him come.</p><p>Ian opens up his Instagram DMs and reads his brief pre-sex conversation with Mickey. He taps into the text box and considers telling him good morning.</p><p>Nope. </p><p>No fucking way. He’s a fan who banged a celebrity. That’s all.</p><p>He closes out of Instagram and switches back to the YouTube app, and he watches MICK MILK, Mick, <i>Mickey</i> finish cleaning up his spill and then say into the mic, voice edgy and funny, “That never fuckin’ happened. You saw nothing.”</p><p>And well, that doesn’t help ease Ian’s crush at all.</p><p>---<br/>
---</p><p>Part of him is hoping he’ll run into Mickey again on his way out, but he knows it’s likely that Mickey and his crew left for the airport early, or if he was staying for more than one day, that he was probably already doing whatever celebrity business he had planned.</p><p>Ian checks out and, without a Mickey spotting, heads out of the hotel with his PlayStation shoved in his backpack and his clothes in the plastic bag the PlayStation had originally been stored in. He takes the L back home and, as he waits for his stop, flips through the pictures he’d taken the day before on his phone.</p><p>It’d started off weird and rocky, and there was never a point in which he felt he was having the time of his life, but when he boils it all down to its component parts as an experience in his objectively boring, unenviable life, Ian finds it was memorable and fun, really. Even the awkward parts. Even the horrible game playing and the argument with Mickey and the coming inside him in two minutes parts.</p><p>When he gets home, everybody crowds around him, wanting to hear about his day with a rich and famous YouTuber. Ian shows off his pictures, and he tells lies of omission and lies of exaggeration, and that afternoon, he hooks up the PS5 and he and the rest of the Gallagher kids take turns playing horror and adventure games.</p><p>If Ian never sees Mickey again, if the universe made all of this happen just to give him a story to tell, it’s fine. It’s great. It’s worth it for a lot of things: the memories, the naughty knowledge he now has, the afternoon spent with his family, screaming at jumpscares and rage-yelling at quick time events.</p><p>He resubscribes to Mickey on YouTube, and he likes the second <i>Subnautica</i> video posted that day, and he enjoys the fact that he’s allowed to enjoy something. He can enjoy it no strings. He can enjoy it without becoming super invested. </p><p>Sure. Of course.</p><p>But the next night, as he’s scrolling through his Instagram feed, he decides to search up MICK MILK, just to see--just to see if he’s posted any more Chicago pictures, any more pictures from their co-op session.</p><p>Mickey had made a post that morning, a picture of him in a First Class pod on the plane, wearing white headphones and a navy beanie with a tiny, embroidered middle finger on it. It’s clearly a sponsored post, as Mickey tags the headphones brand in his caption and mentions how they cancel out all the annoying noise of plane rides and allow him to listen to <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SLembugl5R4">his music</a> in peace. </p><p>And well, shit. Mickey’s so <i>cute</i>. He’s cute and he’d made the sweetest sounds when he’d been feeling good, and the way his face had softened like magic before he’d called Ian a virgin makes Ian suck his lip into his mouth. Makes him question. Makes him <i>wonder</i>.</p><p>He checks the time. It’s almost 11:00 PM, so about 9:00 in LA. Mickey’s likely home.</p><p>Ian taps back over to his DMs and opens up his thread with Mickey.</p><p>And he talks himself out of it a dozen times before he actually presses send. He types it and he deletes it and he types it over and over again, rewording it a little each time to sound less dorky, less needy, more casual.</p><p>Finally, once he thinks he has it right, he holds his breath, squeezes his eyes shut for a few nervous seconds, then taps <i>send</i>.</p><p>Whatever happens, he thinks, happens. If Mickey never replies, never messages him again, it’s fine. It’s meant to be.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian Gallagher:</b> <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/94726b8ff1e253c55b775d9f1b536e23/3051c0ca17297b37-a7/s640x960/5123830f0e47e2ef9d91c7c4621c960ce6b8d1b5.jpg">Okay</a>, so the other night wasn’t my best performance… Next time you’re in town, let me try again?</p><p>------------------------</p><p>But if he does, well. That’s another story entirely.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Some fun facts about Chapter 2:<br/>-The style of games produced by SneakAttack are similar to those produced by SuperMassive, creators of <i>Until Dawn</i> and <i>The Dark Pictures Anthology</i>. Click <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_HwEuNql-aI">here</a> to see a trailer that kind of shows what both the co-op and gameplay experience is like. Warning for creepiness and a slight jumpscare, though it doesn't really get me and I'm pretty jumpy when I play. <i>Little Hope</i> is awesome, btw, and I highly recommend. Not so much <i>Man of Medan</i>, though. </p><p>-Since the PS5 was only released this month, it's <i>super</i> unlikely and probably impossible that Ian could've actually been gifted one in July. However, I figured since the new console would be out this year, a PS4 would sort of be a bad gift from a gaming company and therefore I'm stretching the limits of time.</p><p>-Additionally, though it's kind of extra information rather than super-textual, Mickey listening to "Tobacco Sunburst" on the plane would also technically be impossible, since the song came out in September, but again, time does not matter in this fic. Also, that song is 100% a Mickey song. &lt;33</p><p>-Poor Ian. 💀 On that note, Ian and Mickey may've done the deed, but this is a slow burn, folks. The Celebrity/Groupie to FWB to Lovers tag is quite accurate. We're gonna watch them grow closer as the story progresses.</p><p>-Your questions will be answered eventually. I'm definitely setting up Mickey as a mystery on purpose. We'll get to know him more as Ian does.</p><p>-Click <a href="https://gallavichy.tumblr.com/post/634892463411200000/click-here-to-view-the-cooperative">here</a> for the fic playlist, which will be updated for each chapter.</p><p>Hope you enjoyed! Thank you so much for reading!</p><p>♥️</p><p>Gray</p><p><i>In the next chapter...</i> Ian gets this groupie thing down to a science.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Feeding on Fever</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Not everything has to be complicated. Not everything has to be about <i>like</i>. Ian can bang a celebrity for fun, he can crush on MICK-MILK-all-caps, and he can still think Mickey Milkovich is an arrogant prick. These things can coexist.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><b>Content Warnings for Chapter 3:</b> there's a lot of sex in this one, folks; skip around if it isn't your thing</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Mickey doesn’t respond.</p><p>And it’s fine. It’s completely fine, and really, it’s not like Ian was expecting him to. What was Mickey going to say? <i>oh yes, of course, ian. i’d love to meet up with you again so you can bend me over the bed and cum in my ass before i’ve even got a good stroke rhythm going.</i></p><p>When <i>Seen</i> shows up beneath his direct message not ten minutes after he’s sent it but there’s still no response after an hour and then a day, Ian considers messaging him, <i>I swear to god I’m actually fantastic at sex.</i> </p><p>But fuck no. Ian’s not going to be a whiny little bitch about this. He’s not going to beg Mickey to have sex with him again. It was a hook-up. Ian came, Mickey came, end of, goodnight.</p><p>Ian doesn’t even <i>like</i> Mickey. </p><p>Not <i>really</i>. Maybe. He doesn’t know. He does and he doesn’t, mind flickering between the endearingly grumpy twenty-year-old kid slouched in his theater seat--slurping an energy drink and watching Luke and Miller kiss--and the guy in the Marriott bathroom, the guy complaining about how fast Ian came, the guy who said simply, “Yeah. Okay. See ya,” when Ian’d said he was going to go back to his room.</p><p>Mickey’s a spoiled asshole who’s clearly been treated like a gamer god to the point that he doesn’t feel like he needs to be nice to people. It’s grating as hell, even though Ian can’t help but think about his smirk and the <i>chh</i> sound he makes in lieu of an outright laugh. Can’t help but think about the noises he’d made during sex--soft and sweet.</p><p>But fortunately for him, Ian’s able to separate a person’s looks and public persona from their private personality. He’s okay with admitting that he’d fuck Mickey again in a heartbeat for plenty of reasons other than because he <i>likes</i> him. He’s okay with admitting that MICK MILK, the persona, is precious and funny and gives him a fluttering in his stomach when he accidentally spills his coffee everywhere.</p><p>He’s <i>hot</i>. He’s cute as fuck even if he <i>is</i> an asshole. Whatever. </p><p>If Mickey’s willing to give him another shot at rocking his world, Ian’s on it in a second. Why not?</p><p>Not everything has to be complicated. Not everything has to be about <i>like</i>. Ian can bang a celebrity for fun, he can crush on MICK-MILK-all-caps, and he can still think Mickey Milkovich is an arrogant prick. These things can coexist.</p><p>So Ian continues to look at his Instagram posts without shame, though he still doesn’t follow him. He jerks off sometimes to the memory of Mickey’s little gaspy moans and the feel of the warm skin of his back against his lips. </p><p>He makes peace with his desires and his opinions, and he talks himself into a state of complete and total acceptance of Mickey’s lack of response to his direct message. Mickey doesn’t owe him anything. Ian doesn’t <i>need</i> anything from Mickey. </p><p>If that’s all it is--if Mickey never ever replies and Ian doesn’t see him again for as long as he lives--he’ll manage. He fucked a hot celebrity and got a PS5 out of the deal. It’s more than most people ever get to do, and it’s probably a rare thing to be able to say you sucked the dick of a guy with a Wikipedia page.</p><p>Ian does his best to forget about the glaring <i>Seen</i> beneath his DM and, for the next few weeks, occupies himself with other things. He doesn’t message Mickey again, and everything’s great. Fine.</p><p>Ian has a fun story to tell in ten years when MICK MILK is a thing of the past, he’s got vivid jerk-off material when he closes his eyes and pictures the YouTuber he likes to watch, and he gets a secret little thrill--a sizzling shiver up and down his spine--when he watches Mickey’s Let’s Plays and thinks about how he knows what that annoyingly hot asshole sounds like when he comes.</p><p>He spends a lot of his downtime playing his PS5. And it’s not so much that he’s getting <i>good</i> but that he’s beginning to suck much, much less. He’s memorized the buttons, and he’s starting to understand more about how games work.</p><p>Everything he’d played as a kid had been button-smash fests--hit the same two-button combo over and over until you’ve pummeled the shit out of your enemy. The games he has now--the games Mickey plays--are more advanced, requiring a bit more skill and finesse.</p><p>Ian feels ridiculously proud of himself when he manages to re-play through the entirety of <i>Gifted</i> on his own and keep all four characters alive until the end. He even gets what he thinks is the best ending, the girls happy and thriving and Luke and Miller walking through a field together, holding hands.</p><p>He <i>understands</i> now that you have to pay attention. You can’t just pick up an object and then move on. You have to right-trigger examine it, spin it, hit triangle and read the character’s thoughts about it. You have to <i>think</i> about shit. Be smart about it.</p><p>He understands now that video games are really fucking cool.</p><p>In early August, he tries to branch out a little, checking out some of the channels of other YouTubers Mickey’s collabed with in the past. He watches RussFace play <i>Detroit: Become Human</i>, and he watches Grammark play a couple hours of <i>Ghost of Tsushima</i>. </p><p>He finds that he greatly prefers MICK MILK, though, and it’s not just because he’s hot. There’s something about MICK’s face when he plays--a spark of life, love, and fascination--that’s different. That’s entirely unique to him. </p><p>Ian can watch MICK play <i>Subnautica</i> on a Twitch stream and see the gleam in his eye when he pilots his sea vehicle into a gorgeous new biome. He can listen to the thread of excitement in his voice when he talks about how being in the pitch black darkness 1,200 kilometers below the surface of the ocean is one of the most horrifying things he can imagine. How the creators have done an excellent job of building upon such a fear in an entirely simple way that feels notably genuine. Ian can do it all day. </p><p>Watching other gamers versus watching MICK MILK is the difference between listening to poetry learned by rote and poetry learned by heart.</p><p>MICK is so damn passionate and so damn <i>smart</i> that Ian feels helpless to escape him.</p><p>Not that he wants to.</p><p>Not that he wants to <i>at all</i>, really.</p><p>Ian busses his tables at Patsy’s and plays PS5 alone or with Liam, and he thinks about MICK MILK’s Let’s Play series, and he tries not to think about Mickey Milkovich shoveling in chocolate pie like a kid allowed dessert before dinner. Tries not to think about his <i>Nightmare Hour</i> beanie pulled down nearly to his expressive eyebrows and how he’d rubbed his hand against the back of Ian’s thigh to gentle him through his orgasm.</p><p>He decidedly <i>doesn’t like him</i>, but he somehow still likes him so damn much. </p><p>The paradox of it all makes MICK--Mickey, whatever--feel like a puzzle Ian needs to solve, like the fact that Ian remembers their time together with something both resembling fondness and absolute frustration is some sort of indication that one of those feelings is <i>wrong</i>, that there’s something hidden, some sort of misperception, a misunderstanding that Ian can’t let go of no matter how hard he tries.</p><p>He understands that logically, Mickey’s probably an entitled dick who wanted to get fucked, and Ian, a person he knew to be gay, was just… there. And now it’s over, Mickey can go back to probably secretly fucking half the male population of Los Angeles, and that’s all there is to it.</p><p>But Ian can’t help but think about how Mickey had been crying about something, and about how he’d looked up at him in the hotel room when they were done like maybe he thought--if only for a second--that Ian was an endearing goof. </p><p>And there’s <i>something</i> there. Some knot Ian wants to untangle.</p><p>It’s a weird place to reside, he thinks, scrolling through Twitter one afternoon while smoking on the porch.</p><p>He doesn’t <i>like</i> him, but he’s fucking <i>interested</i> in him, so much that he annoyingly checks his DMs every now and again just to make sure he didn’t accidentally miss Mickey’s response. He wants to fuck him again, and he wants to know his heart, and more than anything, he realizes, he’s convinced that his asshole personality is all an act. </p><p>The asshole personality that he very decidedly <i>doesn’t like</i>.</p><p>Ian thinks that it probably doesn’t say anything good about him that it’s over three weeks since their single hook-up, there’s only the slimmest of chances that they’ll ever see each other again, and all he can think about as he finishes off his cigarette and stubs it out on the step beside him is how he can peek under Mickey’s thick skin to get a look at what’s underneath.</p><p>---<br/>
---</p><p>Mickey turns twenty-one the second week in August. </p><p>The Twitter stans had spent the month prior putting together a <i>Thank you, MICK MILK</i> tribute video, filled with both video and image-form messages of love and appreciation. </p><p>At a little after one that afternoon, Mickey retweets it along with a message that, for all the fact that it seems completely out of character for the man Ian met the month prior, can’t help but come across as sweet and sincere.</p><p>
  <i>this is cool as shit and i appreciate you more than you know. for the past 5 yrs, i’ve got to do things that seemed like a daydream when i was a kid, and it’s all thanks to the constant support of you badass motherfuckers. thanks for going on this ride with me. 🤘🤘 -MM</i>
</p><p>By the time Ian sees the tweet, it has 582 replies filled with birthday wishes, pleading eyes emojis, and 💖💞💗💓💝💕💋. Mickey doesn’t know his Twitter username, so what the hell, Ian replies <i>Happy birthday</i> 😎 because what’s one more message added to hundreds?</p><p>He opens Instagram then, searches up MICK MILK, and finds he’s made a post with a photo of himself standing in front of a <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/c2854a498b1c0ead945599801e9fb738/f3cf4b4ca2943a3b-70/s540x810/d7e63609cfdac5a5d3ed90e2060c7561c9b6ab6b.jpg">polka-dot wall</a> holding an unopened bottle of Jack like it’s an Oscar. He’s wearing a <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/1e8f89906a03f067f8dbe9fcf7836419/dccd458ec7578110-ab/s2048x3072/9d558bcd44fc63fa252377b984c3d42270734474.jpg">black T-shirt with white numbers all over it</a>, the sleeves cut off, and gray jeans tucked into his black Timbs.</p><p><i>damn, can’t wait to try alcohol for the very, very first time ever in my whole life</i> 😈, it’s captioned, and Ian smiles in spite of himself, thumb hovering over but refusing to touch the like heart.</p><p>There’s another picture in the photo set--a girl standing in Mickey’s place. She has dark brown-black hair pulled into a half-ponytail and is wearing <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/7d0857b0e75fdbdba51a6fca5e825aef/e1d5b9df7197234f-0d/s1280x1920/a1ca8fe92c74980779c9b4ada975c96d422043eb.jpg">a men's rainbow-striped T-shirt</a> that comes down to her knees and ripped black tights with Doc Martens. She’s sticking out her tongue at the camera and holding up both middle fingers, and upon a zoom, Ian can see both a nose and tongue piercing.</p><p>It’s Mickey’s sister Mandy, Ian recognizing her from some of MICK MILK’s old Let’s Plays. She’s changed since then, her style now appearing purposefully, fashionably alternative and cool rather than just being how she naturally looks--her holey tights like she bought them that way and her hair shiny and smooth rather than frizzy and dye-damaged like it looked three years ago.</p><p>Mickey’s tagged her in the photo, and out of curiosity, Ian taps over to peruse <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/c81fe7240037c3e8819ca432ec5c0cff/7d4955a744de4d3b-16/s640x960/3af01ca4b982b7fc0f6de8fadf1962d742e65053.jpg">her profile</a>.</p><p>She has eleven thousand followers and a regularly updated account with several hundred likes and comments on each photo. Based on her most recent posts, it looks like she’s visiting her brother in LA for the week, her last three pictures being of her in a black bikini on Hermosa Beach, holding a beer in a kitchen that could be right out of <i>Architectural Digest</i>, and one from that morning of Mickey standing on a street corner, taking a bite out of <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/0a141fe9240fdf5c6c5c09203123bb19/394ae31f3900ea09-d1/s2048x3072/a80f5ec8304038047a53b75be795f5f32268db99.jpg">a breakfast sandwich wrapped in a bag</a> that says <i>eggslut</i>.</p><p><i>hot. thanks.</i> Mickey’d commented, and his comment has 112 likes and 24 replies, most wishing him a happy birthday.</p><p>Because he’s an idiot and because Mickey’s apparently a fucking siren, for a second, Ian considers sending him a <i>happy birthday</i> DM. </p><p>Instead--thank God--he closes out of all social media apps and goes for a jog.</p><p>So go the first three weeks of August. </p><p>Ian does his level best to chill the fuck out and stop being a giant weirdo over a guy he doesn’t even like. Whenever he finds himself leaning into Mickey Milkovich rather than MICK MILK, he manages--with varying levels of difficulty--to pull away. He leans in, and he pulls away.</p><p>He distracts himself.</p><p>He goes to work, and he takes his meds, and he plays his PlayStation until Fiona one night randomly tells him a story about a guy she once dated who played video games all day. </p><p>He gets the hint.</p><p>He doesn’t actually <i>care</i>, but he gets it.</p><p>Whatever. He’s into gaming. It’s fun, and it passes the time, and it beats sitting around moping and sighing out of boredom when he’s off work. It’s not like he has friends to hang out with, and Lip’s already expressed gently and not-so-gently that he sorta wants to do his own thing at CPU involving girls, alcohol, and his own private dorm room.</p><p>Ian’s growing <i>okay</i> at gaming, and he’s getting dextrous on the controller. He likes the accomplishment of building skill in something he enjoys. He likes it <i>much more</i> than he likes the fact that he’s also slowly becoming a pro at clearing tables without breaking anything and avoiding wetting the front of his apron when he sprays down dirty dishes.</p><p>His life goes on--ho, hum. Ian doesn’t think about the future, and he avoids thinking about the past, and he tries to make it through, searching out little pockets of pleasure wherever he can. Video games. MICK MILK. Rinse, repeat.</p><p>Ho, hum.</p><p>It’s why it comes as a shock to him when it happens.</p><p>He’s at work on the 23rd, sucking on a cherry Dum Dum as he wipes down a table with a warm towel--swipe, swipe, back, forth--when he feels his phone vibrate with an alert.</p><p>After finishing up, he picks up his tub of dirty dishes and carries it to the back, then reaches into his pocket for his phone.</p><p>And his heart kicks so hard when he sees the notification that he loses his breath for a minute.</p><p>Shaking, he moves back into the locker area, out of the way of the busy cooks, and swipes open Instagram.</p><p>Holy fuck.</p><p>He swallows and peers around. Considers pinching himself to make sure he’s actually awake.</p><p>It’s been over a month, and Ian’s back to doing his thing, and he’s fine. He’s <i>fine</i>.</p><p>And he doesn’t even like him, really, but all he can think when he reads Mickey’s DM is <i>holy fuck. Holy fuck.</i></p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>MICK MILK:</b> okay, whatever quick draw mcgraw. i’m in town saturday for a collab. you free?</p><p>------------------------</p><p><i>Yes. Very, very decidedly yes</i>, Ian thinks, even as his eyes fall on the schedule Fiona’s posted on the wall that very, very decidedly has his name written in that day for a twelve-hour shift.</p><p>Ian hates himself a little at his desperation.</p><p>He doesn’t like this guy. </p><p>He <i>doesn’t</i>.</p><p>He just thinks he’s hot, and he thinks his MICK MILK character is endearing, and he’s absolutely going to fuck him again because of it.</p><p>Well, that and the fact that he just called him <i>Quick Draw McGraw</i>, and now Ian <i>has</i> to prove his sexual prowess. </p><p>In an effort to not appear too eager, he waits until near the end of his shift to reply.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian Gallagher:</b> I’m free</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Fiona’s gonna kill him for bailing on at least part of his Saturday shift, but whatever. She can find somebody else.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>MICK MILK:</b> cool</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Ian sits in the booth he’s just cleaned and waits for more. A time. A location. Anything.</p><p>When Mickey doesn’t provide any further information, he considers asking, but well, that might be too much, right? Maybe Mickey doesn’t yet know the time or hotel.</p><p>Ian likes Mickey’s message and blanches at the red heart that pops up, then pockets his phone and grabs up his cloth.</p><p>Holy fuck.</p><p>---<br/>
---</p><p>It feels stupid and juvenile, but he’s horny as a motherfucker for the rest of the week, his blood simmering at the thought of getting inside Mickey again.</p><p>That doesn’t bode well for his stamina, really. </p><p>Ian’s been having sex off and on since he was fourteen. There was the awkward mutual handjob situation with Roger in the school locker room, then the shit with Kash, then Jimmy-Steve’s dad, then the club sex prior to his diagnosis and the cautious, infrequent Grindr hookups afterward.</p><p>He’s <i>not</i> a novice; he’s actually pretty fucking good at this, and the fact that he’s losing his mind and his ability to control his dick with Mickey is really coming as a blow to his ego.</p><p>When Mickey DMs him late Friday night, Ian vows to masturbate multiple times before they meet up in an effort to take off the near-constant edge.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>MICK MILK:</b> the thompson @ 9?</p><p><b>MICK MILK:</b> i’ll send you the room number when i get it</p><p><b>Ian Gallagher:</b> Sounds good</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Rather than outright blow off Fiona, Ian switches out for an earlier start on Saturday and works until six. He then goes straight home, jerks off twice--the first time because he’s nineteen and horny and the second time just as a preventative measure, having to use porn on his phone to get him going again--then showers and gets dressed.</p><p>He tries to look casual, pulling on dark-wash jeans and a navy, slim-fit T-shirt with his brown boots. He combs at his hair and spritzes on a bit of Lip’s old cologne. He takes his dinner-time meds with a sandwich. </p><p>Mickey DMs him the room number while he’s nervously peeing for the last time before he leaves, and Ian quickly sends him a thumbs up.</p><p>At 8:30, he takes the Red Line to Clark/Division, then walks, hands in his pockets, to <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/e042360c2a1b65751234849f9c8b1031/3f82f07f461625e8-bc/s1280x1920/4833afcd1b8eb2a8f55ee04b5102bb60775486fa.jpg">the hotel</a>. It’s modern and trendy in a way the older, more renowned Chicago hotels aren’t. Ian doesn’t know why he’d imagined Mickey staying at The Four Seasons or The fuckin’ Ritz. He may be rich, but the artsy, cozy atmosphere of this place seems more up his alley.</p><p><a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/804314da2e242aa9c94acaac85db6717/4b8d9c19aa92cf5d-86/s2048x3072/ff0cea59e1b85fcf095985b18d7991149bc3bc3f.jpg">The lobby</a> reminds Ian of a large coffee shop with its interesting architecture, <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/6aec53b25c75137e098228702e56088e/b15f123c8246f9fa-e7/s2048x3072/8a77ba9eb34f040e9e323863a10610319b29afb5.jpg">bookshelves</a>, chocolate and ivory color scheme, and art on the walls. It smells warm and pleasant, and Ian breathes deeply as he makes his way across the floor, trying to look like knows where he’s going and thinking about Mickey maybe liking this place. </p><p>Ian doesn’t really know how things work when it comes to Mickey traveling for his job and getting hotel rooms. Does Mo figure out his accommodations? Does she travel with him? Did he have security and a crew that flew with him to Chicago just so he could do a collab at another YouTuber’s house?</p><p>Being a self-made content-creator’s probably different from being a movie star or musical artist, whose job it is to perform and then be ushered around by management. Right?</p><p>How much control does Mickey have over his life? Is what they’re about to do like, <i>sneaky</i>? Or is Mickey simply on his own at this hotel, dialing in a booty call like anybody else?</p><p>A booty call. Fuck. Ian’s skin burns beneath his eyes as he takes the stairs up to the fifth floor, heart pounding all the while.</p><p>He’s a little surprised that Mickey’s got what seems to be a regular room on a middle guest floor rather than a suite up top. Ian’d been expecting another penthouse--something spectacularly, unnecessarily grand. But he supposes that after all, a one-night stay for one person doesn’t really require a full-size living room.</p><p>Ian feels like he’s in the Twilight Zone as he makes his way down what feels like an endless <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/c3201483c38dc0a4a2ceb916d7e9eb93/38064f1f14391467-97/s400x600/c798162be04010cd621293bcf659cd7232e4e286.jpg">hallway</a>.</p><p>Booty call. Holy shit. This is a booty call.</p><p>Mutually arranged, really, so it feels less weird than he thinks it might otherwise, but still. Ian’s about to full-on groupie-style bang a celebrity again. He pauses. Squeezes his eyes shut.</p><p>He can’t be thinking this way because he absolutely <i>cannot</i> go off like a fucking rocket this time. </p><p>It’s less about feeling like he needs to impress MICK MILK--though it is a little of that--and more about his own pride. What sexually active man wants to be thought of as a blushing virgin by a sex partner--celebrity or not? </p><p>Ian blows out a breath. Continues down the hallway. </p><p>He thinks he might puke when he finally reaches Mickey’s door. </p><p>He stands there for a second, fidgeting. Listening. He takes out his phone, double-checks the room number in the DM. Shoves it back in his pocket. Stares for a moment at the large knocker ring and the blinking orange light on the key-card reader above the door handle.</p><p>Once more, there’s a murmur of <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IMQR-KTNlNE">music</a> coming from the room. Ian swallows, takes a deep breath, and knocks.</p><p>Here goes nothing.</p><p>Keep your cool. Keep your cool.</p><p>The music cuts immediately this time, but there’s still a long, drawn-out pause before Mickey answers the door. Ian imagines him checking the peephole--tries not to look at it, tries not to be obvious.</p><p>Finally, the door opens.</p><p>“Hey,” Ian greets awkwardly, too fast, practically before he even has a chance to get a good look at Mickey.</p><p><i>Play it cool</i> apparently be damned.</p><p>He swallows. Allows his eyes to land on the man before him.</p><p>Mickey’s expressionless, face neutral like a wiped slate. Shaven. Smooth. Even. His typically-expressive brows lax.</p><p>He’s wearing a giant <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/4c0c3aa010c506a8affbaefe6b0ffa2a/27506f5b82cfa52a-f6/s1280x1920/a3933eb22130362b3de15d02e9d140ad4521db61.jpg">Korn T-shirt</a> that looks baggy enough to be worn exclusively for sleep, the neck askew and showing a bit of collarbone and the short sleeves hitting at his elbows. On the bottom, he’s got on those same Adidas track pants from the last time they hooked up.</p><p>He’s barefoot, and Ian gives a little puff of breath out his nose at the sight of Mickey’s pale feet with his small, vulnerable toes.</p><p>Mickey shifts, clearly catching Ian looking, and murmurs, “Hey.” He steps back and leans against the open door, motioning for Ian to step inside.</p><p>And it is just a <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/19d3e3ccbf32818a8242d5d70475508a/e9b0766bc5b7214a-c2/s1280x1920/323c88cadfed32d015da97da8881fae2006eddf2.jpg">regular king room</a>, but it’s nice and modern, colored similarly to the lobby--rich brown and navy, with plush, velvety furniture and cool artwork. There’s an L-shaped couch in the corner with a small coffee table. The bed is spacious and white with gray-brown accents, and the far right wall has three large windows showing off the lights of the city. </p><p>Based on the amount of disarray--the unzipped duffle bag spilled out on the couch, the several empty beer cans set on various surfaces, and, despite the hotel being non-smoking, the half-filled water glass on the nightstand containing four cigarette butts--it seems like Mickey’s been hanging out here for several hours.</p><p>Ian imagines him laying around in his XXL T-shirt and boxers, watching TV as he drinks and smokes.</p><p>It feels intimate here--different from the penthouse--and Ian presses his lips together as Mickey closes and locks the door behind them.</p><p>“What’s up?” Mickey asks, voice quiet, as he and Ian make their way fully into the room. <i>Rick and Morty</i> is muted on the TV, and Ian bites back a smile as he watches Mickey quickly grab the remote and switch over to the main Hulu menu, then, as if frazzled, switch off the TV altogether.</p><p>Ian <i>hm</i>s and responds, “Not much.”</p><p>How do you even do this shit? Should he just go for it? Move in on him?</p><p>Brain buzzing, he blows out a breath and wanders over to the windows to look out. “How’d your collab thing go?” he asks, beginning with safety.</p><p>“Fine.”</p><p>“Who was it with?”</p><p>“Mm. Graham. Uh, Grammark.” Coming from behind, Mickey’s voice sounds bored. Uninterested.</p><p>Ian nods and looks over at Mickey, who’s fidgeting with the hem of his T-shirt and shuffling his feet against the wood floor. His eyes aren’t meeting his and are instead focused on his fingers as he twists the fabric like he’s about to tie it in a knot at his waist.</p><p>“I’ve watched some of his stuff,” Ian adds, not paying attention so much to their idle conversation as he is to the man four feet behind him. “<i>Ghost of Tsushima</i>.”</p><p>Mickey bites his lip, drops the hem of his shirt, and crosses his arms across his chest. “Yeah,” he says, distracted, eyes touching on Ian’s boots, then somewhere around the vicinity of his knees. </p><p>He works his mouth open and closed for a moment, as if building up the courage to say something, and Ian knows what it is before the words even leave his lips.</p><p>He turns fully toward Mickey, places his hands on his hips, and waits.</p><p>Mickey’s eyes, oddly soft for a moment, tilt over Ian’s shoulder to the city beyond the windows, then to the floor, then to Ian’s face. And just like that, they harden, cold like they’d been when last time he’d asked <i>Ya gonna get on me or what?</i></p><p>It’s like a switch has been flipped. Amazing.</p><p>“We doin’ this, man?” he asks this time, voice rough and dramatically irritated, nodding toward the bed.</p><p>The room suddenly feels stuffy. Hot. </p><p>“Yeah,” Ian says, stepping toward him.</p><p>---</p><p>Ian unbuckles his belt while Mickey pulls off his shirt. It’s the first time Ian’s seen his chest.</p><p>He’s visibly muscular but soft, like the muscles are part of his natural body composition rather than something he develops through exercise. He has pink nipples and next to no chest hair, just a fine layer of light brown peach fuzz, and there’s a mole beside his belly button.</p><p>Ian swallows as he opens his pants and pulls off his own shirt.</p><p>He’s skinny, he knows. Out of shape. His shoulders and pecs are still defined, but he’s lost his abs to illness. He’s freckly and pale, and he’s never once in his life been self-conscious about his body, but he can’t help but tighten his stomach muscles as Mickey sizes him up while toying with the band of his track pants.</p><p>They continue to undress in silence. Mickey pulls his pants and underwear all the way off this time--tosses them onto the couch--and, with zero fanfare, grace, or seeming desire for even an ounce of foreplay, bends once more over the bed, exactly how he’d been in the penthouse suite.</p><p>Ian takes a deep breath and kicks off his boots and jeans.</p><p>Affecting an air of confidence, he ambles closer to the bed and, inches away, close enough that if he tilted just a bit, the front of his bare thighs would touch the back of Mickey’s, he pauses. Looks down. Considers.</p><p>And after a moment of hesitation, he leans over to press a quick kiss to the blondish fuzz at the base of Mickey’s spine.</p><p>He’d wanted to do it last time, but he hadn’t. And it doesn’t mean anything, obviously, but the start of this whole thing is weird, like they’re a pair of fucking emotionless androids programmed to bang.</p><p>Even with his Grindr hookups, the guys are often chatty, the sex starting with making out or partial hand- or blow-jobs. </p><p>Sex doesn’t have to be affectionate or friendly, Ian knows. Having been there himself, he’s aware that it happens all the time in Boystown alleys and bathroom stalls. But even then--even in all of Ian’s experiences with all different types of sex--there’s usually a bit <i>more</i> to it, even if it’s rough shoving and dirty talk.</p><p>It feels like Mickey’s bending over for something procedural, like he thinks sex is just getting a dick shoved in his ass.</p><p>That’s fine. Maybe it is for him. Maybe that’s what he likes.</p><p>Ian shrugs to himself and straightens, placing a hand on his own dick for a few steady strokes. He watches Mickey’s back rise and fall as he breathes. Watches his fingers idly grip and release the fabric of the white comforter.</p><p>“Been thinkin’ about this,” Ian says conversationally, trying to lighten the mood, maybe trying to start up a little dirty talk or something to get this experience more in-line with what he’s familiar with. He reaches with his other hand for the lube and condom, which Mickey’s once again left on the bed. </p><p>Mickey’s quiet for a moment before asking, “About kissin’ my back?”</p><p>“‘bout fucking you again.”</p><p>Mickey hums and wiggles, impatient. He sighs. Bored-sounding. “Well get to it then.”</p><p>“Patience, grasshopper.”</p><p>“<i>Chh</i>.” </p><p>There it is. Score.</p><p>Ian smiles and touches his hand to Mickey’s right asscheek. He rubs at it for a second, pulling it away from the other, giving it a squeeze.</p><p>Mickey huffs at it, and Ian knows he’s inwardly tapping his toe, waiting.</p><p>Fine. No playing. No fun. Just get in him.</p><p>Cool.</p><p>Ian lets go of his ass, pops the lube cap, and then sets in to prep him.</p><p>He’s quicker about it than he was last time, both for the sake of his stamina and in order to be more aligned with Mickey’s current mood. The breach still gives him a jolt, though, his belly clenching at the thought.</p><p>Once he’s worked up to three fingers and Mickey’s breath is coming in hard pants, Ian pulls out, slides on the condom, and lubes up.</p><p>The height of the bed puts Mickey’s ass perfectly in line with Ian’s dick if he leans, which he does, bending to cover Mickey’s back with his bare chest and belly and using his right hand to fumble himself inside in one long, slow stroke.</p><p>“Fuck,” Mickey whispers once Ian’s fully seated. </p><p>Ian huffs hot breath against the back of Mickey’s shoulder, holds himself up with his left arm, and uses his right hand to clutch at Mickey’s hip.</p><p>He’s hot, tight, and squeezing. Ian fucks him in pushes--moderately-paced but hard and deep. He grips the softness of his skin and tugs him back to meet his pelvis as Mickey moans in breathy little <i>ah</i>s that make Ian hum and whine deep in his throat.</p><p><i>Fuck</i>, he feels good. His body is perfectly soft and hard in all the right ways. Soft inside. Soft and squishy at the hips. Hard underneath. </p><p>Ian leans further onto him, puts more weight on his back, and slides his left arm around his belly to squeeze him in a tight hug against his chest as he moves his hips faster, faster, rougher.</p><p>“Fuck, fuck,” Mickey groans, and Ian bears down on him more and more until he’s fucking him into the mattress, relentlessly, the low hum of the air conditioning unit doing nothing to cover the slick, slapping sounds of each thrust, the rhythmic noises pushed out of Mickey’s body as if by force.</p><p>“Up,” Ian murmurs through a pant, touching his open mouth against Mickey’s shoulder blade and dragging it to the center, giving him a series of wet, tongue-filled kisses to his spine.</p><p>He leans back and gently pulls out, then helps Mickey climb fully onto the bed and walk on his knees to the pillows.</p><p>Ian climbs up behind him, places his hands on his hips, and slides them slowly up and down Mickey’s sides to his ribs. </p><p>He feels a funny, asymmetrical bumpiness to the line of his left side, like he had a series of broken bones that didn’t heal right.</p><p>Curious, Ian brushes his thumbs against Mickey’s skin, the little bump-bump-bump of ribs that’s noticeably bumpier on one side.</p><p>He shouldn’t do it, he knows; <i>he</i> wouldn’t like it if he were Mickey, so he’s completely unsurprised when Mickey makes a sharp noise of displeasure when he notices Ian rubbing him there, when he shifts, twisting, like he wants to yell <i>will you fuckin’ quit that?</i></p><p>“Hurry it up,” he grumbles instead, dropping his upper body flush to the mattress, lower body still up on his knees. He grips a pillow under his chest and rests his head on it.</p><p>Hm.</p><p>Ian murmurs a quiet apology before biting his lip and moving his hands back to Mickey’s hips. He gives him what he hopes is a comforting squeeze before lining back up and pushing in.</p><p>He goes faster this time, the position allowing him maximum speed. It feels good as fuck, the drag of his cock against Mickey’s rim the best thing Ian’s felt in a while, his belly turning and spine tingling with every thrust.</p><p>It sure as hell gets Mickey going, too, as he starts up this series of muffled groans against the pillow that make Ian feel like he’s going to blow at any moment.</p><p>But he can’t. He <i>can’t</i>.</p><p>He holds on, and he squeezes his eyes shut, and he fucks Mickey as good as he can, giving him everything, leaning in and sucking at his back, biting his shoulders, absently touching at but not focusing on his asymmetrical rib cage, and simply opening his mouth to breathe against him as he moves.</p><p>At one point, Mickey pushes up a little, and Ian groans as he watches him get his right arm out from beneath his chest so he can reach down and stroke himself in time with Ian’s thrusts.</p><p>Ian allows it for a couple minutes before mumbling, “Fuck, Mick.” He leans over to grip Mickey’s shoulder with his left hand, and with his right, reaches around and bats his hand away so he can take over.</p><p>Mickey’s cock is warm and slick, a solid, heavy weight that fits perfectly in Ian’s palm. Against his wrist he can feel the little air-cooled beads of wetness gathered in his pubes as he strokes him fast and slow, rough and gentle, alternating his strokes to match his thrusts as he starts to reach the end.</p><p>“Holy fuck,” he pants, pausing his thrusts for a second to lean into him--to press his sweaty forehead against Mickey’s sweatier back. “So fuckin’ hot.”</p><p>Ian starts up his movements once more, starts back up the strokes to Mickey’s cock, and huffs a laugh when Mickey makes a surprised, high-pitched whine at the dual sensation, like the stop-start kicked him into pleasure overdrive.</p><p>“Fuck me, fuck, fuck,” Mickey murmurs, pushing back in time with Ian’s thrusts. He groans, low and long, and Ian pauses. Leans in again to smear kisses against Mickey’s skin.</p><p>Starts back up.</p><p>He pistons into him, quick, quick, and squeezes and strokes Mickey to the best of his ability, wanting to make it good for him, holy fuck, wanting to feel him come around his dick.</p><p>Mickey starts making a series of <i>ah</i> noises, low, low, then building and building, and Ian knows he’s about to come. Knows it from his noises and knows it from the way his muscles start to flutter inside, a slowly thumping pulse beginning, quickening.</p><p>“Oh fuck,” Mickey pushes out, legs shaking. “I’m… I’m…”</p><p>“Yeah, fuck,” Ian pants, keeping up the pace, bearing down more and more on him until Mickey’s legs are about to give out. “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”</p><p>It’s building inside him, too--has been for minutes, really, held back by sheer force of will. </p><p>Ian bends and bites, sucks at Mickey’s skin and moves and moves until finally, <i>finally</i> the pulses become squeezes and Mickey’s pleasured groans fill the room, only to be muffled against the pillow when he buries his face in it.</p><p>Ian’s hand becomes incredibly slick as he strokes Mickey through his orgasm, and just at the feeling, just at the thought of Ian having <i>given him</i> that orgasm, of those rhythmic squeezes around him, of the wet heat in his palm and on the comforter below, Ian shakes and shakes and comes.</p><p>“Oh,” he exhales, stilling his hips, arms coming once more around Mickey’s waist and tugging his back tightly against Ian’s heaving torso. “Oh, shit.”</p><p>God, it feels so fucking good. He jerks his hips once, twice, filling the condom in pulses, huffing as he feels Mickey reach over his shoulder for just a second to touch his head in an awkward little pat to his hair.</p><p>Fuck. Ian blows out a breath. Rubs his lips against the back of Mickey’s neck as he’s pleasure-flooded and tingling. Warm. Dares to press a kiss there in the sweaty spot that smells like soap.</p><p>They sigh together.</p><p>Mickey all but collapses, Ian’s weight finally proving to be too much for his sex-weakened knees, and for over a minute they just lie there in a hot, sweaty pile of limbs, panting.</p><p>Holy fuck.</p><p>Ian presses his face to Mickey’s damp hair for a second, smelling the very slight sourness of the sweat of the day and the faintest remains of that morning’s shampoo.</p><p>He feels Mickey’s body shifting beneath his, uncomfortable.</p><p>Ian reaches down to grasp the base of his dick and lifts his hips to pull out, careful with the condom.</p><p>“Alright, alright,” Mickey grumbles then, sex-pleasure gone and replaced with Mr. Grumpy. “Get off me.”</p><p>With a heaving sound, Ian rolls off to the side, head to the disheveled pile of pillows, and stretches. Oof. He checks the time on his watch. 9:41.</p><p>At least this time he lasted longer than two minutes. </p><p>Ian scratches at his belly and stares up at the ceiling, trying to slow his breathing through parted lips.</p><p>He hears the <i>snnnick</i> of a lighter, and a second later, smells cigarette smoke. He turns his head.</p><p>Mickey’s lying as close to the nightstand as he possibly can, as if allergic to Ian, a good three feet of space separating their bodies. He’s studying the ceiling and smoking, cheeks pink and forehead shiny with sweat.</p><p>Ian turns his head back, away from the goddamned siren. He sits up. Twists his legs around so he’s facing the windows, back to Mickey.</p><p>He pulls off the condom, tosses it in the trash can nearby, then stands and trudges awkwardly over to the desk by the windows to grab a tissue and clean up.</p><p>Mickey continues smoking silently as Ian then finds his pants and starts to get dressed.</p><p>By the time Ian’s perched on the edge of the bed, pulling on his boots, Mickey’s done smoking. Ian watches him out the corner of his eye as he gets up, pulls on his track pants, and then wanders off to the bathroom.</p><p>When he returns a minute later, he makes a grab for his shirt and, back to Ian, works on turning it right-side out. Ian’s stomach twists when he sees several pinkish suck-marks on Mickey’s upper back--not quite hickeys, but close--that disappear under the T-shirt fabric once it’s pulled over his head.</p><p>“You like, been practicin’, or?”</p><p>The question comes as such a surprise to Ian--Mickey’s voice puncturing the several minutes of complete silence--that he gives a little jump at it, thankful that Mickey’s back is turned.</p><p>And fuck. Practicing?</p><p>It’s a confidence boost, for sure, even if it does carry with it the implication that the first time sucked. Ian can’t help but flush at it, his cheeks warming and mouth threatening to turn up.</p><p>He stares at his shoelaces, knotting his boot. Double-knotting.</p><p>“I definitely wasn’t a virgin before,” he clarifies, voice light. “You don’t believe me, but.”</p><p>Mickey <i>chh</i>s, and Ian allows himself one brief smile.</p><p>“Thanks for the compliment, though, I guess.”</p><p>Mickey hums, and Ian looks up to watch him cross the room to the mini-fridge. When he bends at the waist to grab a six-pack--now a two-pack--of the same cheap-ass beer they keep at the Gallagher house, Ian notices that he has some orangish bleach discoloration on the back of his shirt.</p><p>“Wanna beer?” Mickey offers, apparently ignoring Ian’s thanks.</p><p>He’s freshly medicated. He shouldn’t. Ian shakes his head, and Mickey shrugs, pulls just one beer off the ring, and pops the tab.</p><p>After an inelegant slurp, his mouth getting so full his cheeks bulge, Mickey swallows, sniffs, and says, “A virgin and a teetotaller. Fuck’s wrong with you?”</p><p>Ian stares at him for a second. Asshole. He lifts his middle finger.</p><p>The right corner of Mickey’s mouth tilts upward for just a second, but it’s gone before Ian can even grasp that it’s happening.</p><p>He finishes doing up his boots, sits up straight, and stretches out his arms like he’s going up to bat. He watches Mickey fidget over by the desk for a minute. Thinks. </p><p>Ian’s curious, and though he’s thankful Mickey isn’t kicking him out, the awkward silence is too much. </p><p>With a shrug, he asks, “So assuming you do this a lot, what’s keeping the fans you fuck from tweeting or Instagramming shit about you bein’ into dudes? Is there like an NDA or something?”</p><p>Mickey drops down sideways in the plush desk chair and leans into it with his left side, arm resting on top of the seatback. He takes another slurp off his beer. Swallows. Looks thoughtful for a long moment.</p><p>“Don’t really give a fuck,” he intones slowly, surprising Ian. </p><p>“Are you out?”</p><p>Mickey shrugs. “This shit ain’t nobody’s business.”</p><p>“But like, I could technically go home and tweet about how I just fucked you into the mattress.”</p><p>Ian examines Mickey’s face as he says it, and he gets a bit of a pained jolt at this funny, unidentifiable expression that passes over it like rain. </p><p>Ian watches his eyes turn downward, his lips curl in. Mickey swipes at his mouth as if nervous, before schooling his expression until he’s once more cool and composed.</p><p>He shrugs. “But you won’t,” he says, eyes moving back to Ian’s.</p><p>He doesn’t sound sure enough for Ian’s liking, and it makes him feel a bit sick that he maybe instilled in him some worry.</p><p>“No,” he’s quick to say, shaking his head.</p><p>Mickey takes another drink of his beer and sniffs, trying to appear unaffected. “So then it don’t matter if I’m out or not.”</p><p>Ian tilts his head. “Guess not.”</p><p>There’s a moment of awkward silence. Mickey drinks his beer and Ian looks around the hotel room. Checks his watch. 9:57. </p><p>The deed’s done. His clothes are on. There’s no reason for him to be here, and Mickey’s probably waiting for him to leave.</p><p>Ian stands and scratches at the back of his neck.</p><p>“Thanks for like, takin’ me up on my offer,” he says lightly, allowing a quick smirk.</p><p>Mickey <i>chh</i>s and stands, crushing his beer can in his hand and tossing it free-throw style into the trash can, where it lands with a metallic <i>clang</i>.</p><p>Two points.</p><p>“Thanks for practicin’, man,” he replies, crossing his arms over his chest and bouncing his eyebrows once.</p><p>Ian huffs a laugh. “Should I bring you references proving my lack of virginity? I can get you a list.”</p><p>“Names and numbers, yeah.”</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>Mickey shrugs. Turns away for a second. Ian spies a tiny smile on his lips.</p><p>“Whatever,” Mickey grumbles, turning back, crossing the several feet of distance separating them and stopping within whispering distance, like he’s about to put his hand on Ian’s back to usher him out of the room.</p><p>Ian rolls his eyes. Checks his watch again. 9:59. </p><p>“‘kay,” he says, shifting on his feet and tilting his head toward the door. “Gonna go.”</p><p>Mickey nods. </p><p>Ian sucks his bottom lip into his mouth for a second and, what the hell. “So was I good enough this time to warrant an Instagram follow?”</p><p>Mickey clearly wasn’t expecting that, as his face suddenly breaks into an expression of almost comical confusion, his brows knitting together and the skin between his eyes bunching up. He shakes his head. Huffs a laugh out his nose.</p><p>“I don’t follow fans,” he says, and Ian can’t tell if he’s joking or not, his tone so serious that it could be straight or exaggerated. “Gives them the wrong idea.”</p><p>Either way.</p><p>“You’re an asshole.” Ian means it, sort of, but there’s no heat in his words.</p><p>Mickey shrugs. “No offense, man. I don’t know you.”</p><p>Same line, different day.</p><p>“Yeah, okay. Whatever.” Ian’s tired. He blows out a breath and takes a few steps back, making his way toward the door. “Fine.”</p><p>“You still don’t follow me,” Mickey calls after him, voice light and almost apologetic.</p><p>“Well, I don’t fuckin’ know you, do I?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>Ian nods at him, a <i>see?</i> nod, and crosses his arms over his chest. Gives him a levelling stare.</p><p>And he’s half expecting Mickey to break eye contact like he’s seemingly wont to do when he’s uncomfortable. But he doesn’t. He stares right back at Ian, blue meeting green, then ends their staring contest with an eye-roll. </p><p>“Yeah, fuck you,” he says, and Ian smiles at him because he can’t help it. Bitch.</p><p>“I’m out,” he says, and whatever weird tension was there a minute earlier is gone. “DM me if you wanna do this again or. I dunno.”</p><p>Mickey does some sort of wrinkled, unreadable thing with his mouth, and it could be a <i>yes</i> and it could be a <i>no</i>.</p><p>Ian’s not going to worry about it.</p><p>He gives a wave, and Mickey nods at him in goodbye, twisting the bottom of his T-shirt again.</p><p>Ian leaves.</p><p>He checks his watch. 10:03.</p><p>---<br/>
---</p><p>Mickey does a livestream the next night, and Ian, having taken an early shift at Patsy’s, is home and able to tune in as soon as Mickey tweets his ten-minute warning.</p><p>He isn’t registered with an account, and he doesn’t interact in the chat or really know much at all about Bits or subscriptions and whatnot. He just watches on his phone, earbuds in, as he stretches out on his back in bed.</p><p>Mickey’s added a couple new songs to his pre-stream playlist this week, and he turns on his camera early--before “Bullet With Butterfly Wings”--while <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dz177-qqLWw">“Make It Wit Chu”</a> by Queens of the Stone Age is in its final minute.</p><p>His <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/5b89e449bacd4658409abccd43d3c977/0a3413e8149acbf6-fb/s1280x1920/e306ed6316f8690d7f64b358b04b256f91d50149.jpg">shirt</a> tonight is navy with red outlines of gorillas all over it, and he’s wearing a red beanie on which is embroidered, <i>scared yet?</i>.</p><p>Ian watches him drink his coffee. Lick his lips. Leave his chair for a minute and come back with a cord and device of some sort that he proceeds to plug in somewhere.</p><p>He yawns every now and then.</p><p>When it’s time for the stream to start, Mickey does his <i>Waaaassup</i> and then proceeds to tell his viewers about his collab with Grammark. He yawns again through it, grumbles, “Fuck!” and says, as if talking to himself, “Think I need to fuckin’ sleep.”</p><p>Ian wonders if he wore him out just a little.</p><p>He bites his lip, holds back a smile, and shit.</p><p><i>Shit</i>.</p><p>Goddamn siren.</p><p>---<br/>
---</p><p>If he’s honest, Ian’s absolutely expecting Mickey to DM him again. There was something about the vibes he got at the end of their hook-up. The “I don’t know you.” The tense stare ending in a “Fuck you” that made Ian smile.</p><p>He’s expecting it.</p><p>He’s sort of made a bet with himself that Mickey’ll message him sometime in November--maybe when he’s visiting family for Thanksgiving.</p><p>Ian isn’t at all expecting Mickey to DM him barely two weeks later.</p><p>It’s a Friday night, and he’s baking a Stouffer’s lasagna for the kids while Fiona works ‘til closing. Liam and Carl are playing the PlayStation, their yells filtering in from the living room, and Debbie’s texting someone at the kitchen table.</p><p>Ian’s phone vibrates against the kitchen counter, and he pulls off his oven mit and leans over to look at it.</p><p>He’s expecting it to be anything, really. A tweet alert from Mickey. An Instagram follow notification, as even over a month later, he’s still getting one or two from the contest post every few days.</p><p>But shit, no. It’s a direct message notification.</p><p>Ian quickly swipes it open, heart in his throat.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>MICK MILK:</b> room 320 if you’re up for it</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Wait, what? Like, now?</p><p>He checks his watch. 7:12.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian Gallagher:</b> When?</p><p><b>MICK MILK:</b> whenever</p><p><b>MICK MILK:</b> tonight</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Holy shit.</p><p>Ian peeks at the lasagna, sees it has another fifteen or twenty minutes left.</p><p>Lasagna. Bad breath. He needs to take his meds before he leaves, but he’s not gonna do the lasagna for Mickey’s sake.</p><p>Fuck. Is he doing this?</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian Gallagher:</b> Be there soon</p><p><b>MICK MILK:</b> cool</p><p>------------------------</p><p>He guesses he’s doing it.</p><p>While the lasagna finishes baking, Ian makes himself a microwaved cheese sandwich and takes his meds with it. He rushes upstairs, washes his pits and his dick, brushes his teeth, and changes out of his sweats and into jeans.</p><p>He tells Debbie he’s gotta meet a friend. So engrossed in her phone, she ignores him, so he tells Carl and Liam, who wave him off.</p><p>Before he leaves, he takes out the lasagna, cuts it into squares, and leaves it on the stovetop for the kids’ dinner.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>MICK MILK:</b> same hotel btw</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Shit. Fuck.</p><p>He practically runs to the L.</p><p>---<br/>
---</p><p>Mickey looks more relaxed when he opens the door this time than he had both times before. He’s wearing <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/3418b2b4f22585d895b68f5cdff2637d/cb046fe17173454b-35/s1280x1920/a82d6ddf63b5746539c0e02eb2d392e6f4376dbb.jpg">a long-sleeved T-shirt</a> that says <i>Sell Your Soul! Economics for Children</i>, skinny black sweats, and black socks with a tiny hole in the right toe. </p><p>Ian smiles at him. Fine. He likes his shirt.</p><p>“Guess you were satisfied with my services and discretion?” he jokes as Mickey holds open the door for him.</p><p>Mickey scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever, man.”</p><p>Mickey has <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/a05b3b538a301bae4f514bc3f28ff916/6ee867ba1398dfa4-67/s1280x1920/ba74c6a6df21253f1f14d2699e7f4debe1417fa1.jpg">a corner room</a> this time, two of the walls windowed, making the room look much larger than the last. There’s a smaller desk in this one, but there’s also a seating area on a faux bearskin rug across from the bed. Ian takes a moment to walk around, peering out the windows, finding the view kind of incredible.</p><p>They’re not as high up as they could be, but this is almost even better. It feels like they’re inside the city rather than above it, and it gives Ian a strange sense of inspiration and power as he gazes out, nose inches from the glass.</p><p>All the illuminated little windows. All the ant-like people.</p><p>“Gonna look out the windows all night?” Mickey asks after a minute, and Ian turns his head to look at him. He’s got a knee on the couch, leaning over it a little to watch Ian, who’s standing just behind.</p><p>“Maybe,” Ian says, teasing. He shifts his body around and walks closer. And well, that gives him an idea.</p><p>He knows Mickey was probably asking because he was waiting for things to get started. He was waiting for them to mutually agree to walk to the bed, strip down, and fuck just like they did the other two times, Mickey bent over and Ian coming up behind.</p><p>It’s all good. Ian’s fine with it. But he also kind of <i>does</i> want to look out the windows a little more.</p><p>Rather than moving with Mickey over to the bed, Ian comes around the couch, just behind where Mickey’s leaning, and starts to strip.</p><p>“The fuck you doin’?” Mickey asks as if he doesn’t know, and Ian simply shrugs at him and opens his jeans. </p><p>“Was thinkin’ I’d fuck you on the couch. Change things up.”</p><p>Mickey watches him for a second. Sucks in his cheeks until they’re hollowed. Bites on them.</p><p>After a moment he sighs and stands, hands going to the drawstring at the front of his sweats.</p><p>Ian grabs the lube and condom from where they’ve been so dutifully placed on the bed, and after they’re naked, he quickly preps Mickey and slides inside in one easy stroke.</p><p>Mickey’d resumed his original position of leaning over the back of the couch, supporting himself with one knee on the cushion. Ian covers his back and holds him around the chest, biting and sucking just above his left shoulder blade as he fucks into him steadily, pushing out little rhythmic groans from Mickey, who bows his head and then buries his face in his forearms.</p><p>He feels so good. Warm and soft, a perfect fit, his smaller body something to be enveloped in Ian’s arms. He wants to squeeze him. Does squeeze him a little, holding him, pulling him in close as he moves his hips.</p><p>Ian presses his nose against the back of his neck and breathes, smelling spicy day sweat and a hint of expensive cologne. The skin there is smooth against Ian’s face as he turns his head to hold his cheek against it for the briefest of moments before lifting his head away entirely, eyes finding the city lights, instead.</p><p>He knows the windows are probably mirrored, preventing anyone from looking in and seeing them, but it’s hot to think about--the possibility that they’re being watched. He huffs against Mickey’s neck, eyes half-lidded but gazing beyond the glass, and he gives the man wrapped up in his arms everything he can.</p><p>---</p><p>“Oh fuck, fuck,” Mickey gasps after several minutes, and Ian feels him start to clench around him. A warning.</p><p>Quickly, he slides his right hand down to Mickey’s cock and gives him a series of smooth strokes as he continues to rock into him, hard, deep, sweet.</p><p>Mickey comes with rhythmic, squeezing contractions around Ian’s dick, and Ian whines--a sound so high-pitched and embarrassing--and presses his face against the sweaty skin of Mickey’s back. He pulses hard inside the condom then, breath shuddering out, everything feeling like light and life, millions of tiny windows all lit up in the darkness. </p><p>Mickey braces himself on his right arm and moves his left down between them to grip at Ian’s wrist. He gives it a squeeze, and Ian whines again, feeling another tiny pulse, another surge, before collapsing with all his weight against the other man’s back.</p><p>Breath. </p><p>Breath. </p><p>Ahh.</p><p>A sigh.</p><p>“Shit,” he whispers, mouth pressed up against Mickey’s skin, the movement of his lips feeling like a kiss. “Fuck.”</p><p>He feels Mickey’s head bob in a nod, and Ian can’t help but slide his hand up and down Mickey’s heaving stomach, rubbing at him soothingly. He’s soft there--a layer of squishiness over solid muscle, and he’s got just the faintest fuzzy happy trail that’s only really apparent by touch.</p><p>The best part is that Mickey lets him get away with it for a minute, simply relaxing there, catching his breath. </p><p>But when Ian gives him another squeeze, hugging his back to his chest just a little bit, Mickey wiggles like a cat not wanting to be held and Ian moves off of him.</p><p>As he’s disposing of the condom and cleaning up a minute later, having hunted down both the tissue box and trash can, he hears Mickey murmur something from where he’s standing over by the couch, pulling back on his sweats.</p><p>Ian tilts his head. “What?”</p><p>Mickey nods toward the couch back, and when Ian moves closer, he sees there are three very obvious streaks of semen against the chocolate brown fabric.</p><p>“Probably not the first,” Mickey comments, amused, voice muffled as he pulls his shirt over his head. “Room probably lights up like a fuckin’ crime scene under a blacklight.” </p><p>Ian gives Mickey a look. “Gotta clean it.”</p><p>“Ain’t cleanin’ shit.”</p><p>“My sister worked housekeeping at motels for years. Used to complain about all the gross shit in the rooms.”</p><p>“Then clean it yourself if it bothers you so much.” Mickey shrugs and walks off toward the bathroom.</p><p>“Fuckin’ prick. I’m not cleaning up your jizz.”</p><p>“Then don’t.”</p><p>Ian pulls on his boxers and jeans. Entitled asshole. “You suck, y’know,” he calls, reaching for his shirt.</p><p>Not that Ian’s neat and tidy. His room at home’s fucking gross, and he may or may not occasionally toss his come tissues under his bed when he’s too orgasmed out to take them to the trash.</p><p>But this is about the principle of the thing, really. Ian looks over at the streaks that are going to dry into crust some underpaid lady’s gonna have to scrub with a sponge, this rich dick kicking back and just letting it be, and--</p><p>He feels the obnoxious touch of a wet washcloth against his neck.</p><p>“Boy Scout motherfucker,” Mickey complains, moving over to the couch to clean it.</p><p>Ian rolls his eyes.</p><p>Okay, then. Fine.</p><p>---</p><p>“Good enough for you, princess?” Mickey asks when he’s done, throwing the washcloth at Ian, who dodges it like it’s disgusting even though not five minutes ago he had Mickey’s come all over his hand with no complaints.</p><p>Ian just nods, self-satisfied, and sits down on the edge of the bed to put on his shoes.</p><p>Mickey moves over to the mini-fridge and grabs a beer, offering Ian one but appearing unsurprised when he shakes his head “no.” He cracks it open, takes a slurp, and then has a seat in the chair over by the couch.</p><p>“So why’re you here this time?” Ian asks casually, sliding on his sneaker.</p><p>“Mm. Guest co-hosted a podcast.” Mickey takes a drink of his beer and burps lightly. “Gaming thing. Sucked.”</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>Mickey shrugs. “Hate that talkin’ shit.”</p><p>“Says the guy whose career involves talking about games.”</p><p>“I dunno, man.” He takes a drink. “I love games, just hate talkin’ about random shit for no reason. Podcasters are annoyin’ as fuck. Fake-ass laughter and one forced conversation after another.”</p><p>“I’ll take your word for it. Never listened to a podcast in my life,” Ian admits, tying his shoe.</p><p>“Ain’t missin’ much.”</p><p>Ian hums. Knots. Double-knots.</p><p>He checks his watch. 8:52.</p><p>And he’s about to stand, about to head out, really, when Mickey asks, “So are you like actually into gaming at all?”</p><p>His tone is accusatory, like Ian straight up faked his way into that contest--no interest in games whatsoever.</p><p>And well, okay. Fine. Not a terrible assumption, but it’s not <i>entirely</i> true.</p><p>Ian could lie, could feign a years-long interest for the sake of coming across as less of a weirdo who just had a crush on a YouTuber. But it’s not like Mickey hadn’t seen first-hand how rusty he was, unfamiliar console or not.</p><p>“Gettin’ into it,” he confesses, relaxing back into his seat on the bed. “Been playin’ PS5 a lot, trying to get better. It’s fun.”</p><p>Mickey just drinks his beer and watches his face, looking thoughtful.</p><p>Ian shrugs. “Really poor growin’ up, so I didn’t have tons of games and shit. Didn’t really have a lot of time to play with stuff like that, y’know.”</p><p>He doesn’t think to be ashamed of it. It is what it is. He’s <i>still</i> poor, and unless he wins a million dollars or somehow lands himself a high-paying job one of these days, he’s going to be poor forever. </p><p>It’s his life. He doesn’t want it. Never wanted it. Tried for years to get out of it. And he knows he’s a teenager still, and his life is far from over, but it’s hard to look into the future right now and see anything other than more of the same.</p><p>Whatever. Ian crosses his legs at the ankles. Leans back a bit on the bed, getting comfortable.</p><p>“Do you watch my stuff?” Mickey asks, pulling one of his legs up into the seat with him. He tilts his head back, draining the rest of his beer.</p><p>“A lot of it, yeah.” It feels weird to talk about, but it’s kinda how he ended up here, after all. Ian crosses his arms over his chest and tells Mickey about Liam and Jacob and how he first watched one of his videos because they were laughing over his lack of reaction to jumpscares.</p><p>Mickey doesn’t really respond to that, just sort of nods and then crushes his beer can. He chucks it at the trash can but misses. <i>Chh</i>s in amused frustration.</p><p>“All my siblings know who you are now,” Ian mentions casually. “After the contest, y’know. There’s six of us. We all play the PS5 sometimes.”</p><p>Mickey hums, uninterested maybe. He’s shutting down, drawing away from the measured curiosity he’d had when he’d questioned Ian about whether he was into games.</p><p>Ian scratches his jawline, desperately wanting to pull him back.</p><p>“How many siblings do you have?” he asks.</p><p>He remembers his Wikipedia article--remembers the <i>known for maintaining a guarded personal life and refusing to answer interview questions that reference his life prior to the start of his YouTube career.</i></p><p>What the hell. He tries.</p><p>To his credit, Mickey doesn’t tell Ian to fuck off. He doesn’t refuse to answer the question. He does get a little hem-haw about it, though, <i>hmm</i>ing and wandering his eyes around the room as if he’s not sure whether he should answer.</p><p>But finally he says, voice a mumble like a kid forced to fess up, “Two brothers and a sister.”</p><p>Ian knew about Mandy, of course, but he didn’t know about the two brothers. Idly, he wonders if they’re hot, too. Probably these snazzily-dressed, dark-haired, blue-eyed Northside boys with bad attitudes.</p><p>“You’re from Chicago, right?” he asks, meaning to next inquire about where specifically he grew up. Ian puts his bet on Lincoln Park--somewhere wealthy, somewhere conducive to spawning grumpy little rich boys.</p><p>It’s actually common knowledge that Mickey’s from Chicago, but to Ian’s surprise, Mickey rolls his eyes at his question. </p><p>“Alright, Encyclopedia Brown,” he grouses, clearly done here, shoving up to standing and stretching. He looks awkward for a minute, right hand grabbing at his left shoulder as he wanders his eyes around the room as if searching for something.</p><p>Ian checks his watch again. 9:06.</p><p>“Listen,” Mickey says suddenly, shuffling his socked feet against the wood floors. “I was gonna order some room service.” He speaks quietly as if talking to himself. “If you want some or whatever.” He shrugs, nodding toward Ian’s watch. “Or not. If you need to go.”</p><p>Ian’s heart pounds.</p><p>He was a little amazed last time when Mickey didn’t kick him out on his ass after they fucked. This time, he’s asking if he wants to eat with him.</p><p>Shit. <i>Shit</i>.</p><p>“Um. Yeah,” Ian says, arms suddenly gone wobbly with nerves. “That’d be...cool.”</p><p>Mickey sniffs as if he hadn’t just asked such a question--casual as anything--and moves over to the coffee table where the room service menu rests. He picks it up and tosses it onto the bed beside Ian.</p><p>“Pick what you want.”</p><p>---</p><p>They both end up ordering lobster spaghetti and salad. Mickey also orders a Coke and then makes a face like he doesn’t know who he is anymore.</p><p>Ian raises an eyebrow.</p><p>After hanging up, Mickey unceremoniously switches on the TV and shuffles around the front of the room, standing by the windows for a moment, then touching at the back of the couch like he’s considering sitting. Finally, with a funny, determined look on his face, he moves over to the chair he was in earlier, turns it to face the TV, and drops down. </p><p>They don’t really talk, and the atmosphere is awkward as hell. Ian scoots up the bed to lean against the headboard and divides his time between watching the predictable crime drama, playing around on his phone, and sneaking peeks at Mickey.</p><p>Mickey’s slouched low in the seat, head resting against the middle of the seat back and legs stretched out in front of him. His chair’s turned away from the bed, and he’s completely absorbed in his phone, mostly ignoring Ian’s existence. </p><p>Until he isn’t.</p><p>“‘ey,” he says at one point, breaking the silence that has only turned comfortable by force. He holds up his phone and gives it a little shake, still facing the TV. “You still don’t fuckin’ follow me?”</p><p>Ian snorts. “Gotta follow me first.”</p><p>“Bet you follow me on Twitter.”</p><p>When Ian doesn’t reply, Mickey grabs onto the chair arms, stands with it, and turns it to face the bed. </p><p>He raises an eyebrow in question. Ian just shrugs.</p><p>“What’s your username?”</p><p>“Wouldn’t you like to know.”</p><p>“<i>Fuck</i>,” Mickey exclaims, squinting in a way that makes him look cute to the point that Ian wants to leave. “You’re one‘a the fuckin’ perverts askin’ weird shit in my mentions, aren’t you?”</p><p>Ian laughs at that. He can’t help it. He pulls his legs to his chest and wraps his arms around them. “Whoops,” he deadpans. “Caught me.”</p><p>Mickey gives him a <i>yeaaah, figured you out, punk</i> look before casting his gaze back down to his phone. Ian swears there’s the tiniest smile on his mouth.</p><p>“So how do you deal with that shit?” he asks, tilting his head toward Mickey’s phone.</p><p>Mickey shrugs, seemingly uninterested in the conversation, but murmurs, “Part’a the job. Ignore it.”</p><p>“Women sure love you.”</p><p>“Ugh.”</p><p>Ian <i>hmm</i>s at that. He hadn’t been sure until now, secretly wondering if Mickey’s interest in men wasn’t entirely exclusive.</p><p>“I dunno,” Mickey says, circling back to Ian’s previous question. “It ain’t that bad. Bein’ called a homophobe fuckin’ sucks, though.”</p><p>“Oh, fuck you.”</p><p>“I almost lost a loyal sponsor.”</p><p>“You called me a faggot.”</p><p>“I <i>never</i> called you a faggot.” Mickey looks up from his phone. Purses his lips and waggles his fingers. “I said you left a <i>faggoty-ass</i> comment on my video.”</p><p>Ian narrows his eyes at him.</p><p>Mickey shrugs. And when Ian doesn’t say anything back, he grumbles, “I didn’t mean it as an <i>insult</i>, man. I just hate that sappy shit.”</p><p>“But you replied to me.”</p><p>“I dunno!” Dramatic bitch! Mickey stands from his seat and stomps toward the bathroom.</p><p>Ian flips him off, the annoying asshole. </p><p>He smiles to himself, though, when Mickey steps into the other room, sticks his arm back through the door, and returns the gesture.</p><p>---</p><p>The food comes shortly after Mickey exits the bathroom, sleeves pushed up to his elbows and smelling like hand soap. Ian goes in after him, pees and washes his own hands, and then the two of them grab their fancy to-go boxes from the tray left just inside their door.</p><p>Mickey gets another beer from the fridge, and Ian feels unmoored when Mickey then walks over, takes the glass Coke bottle the server had brought, and hands it to him.</p><p>“Fuckin’ teetotaller,” he says, picking up a fork from the tray and carrying his little pile of food stuff over to his chair.</p><p>After a long pause, Ian walks over, climbs onto the bed, and resumes his position against the headboard.</p><p>The two of them eat quietly and watch some over-dramatic half-hour reality show Mickey puts on. Fiona texts Ian a series of question marks just as he’s finishing up. He checks the time. 10:17.</p><p>Ian purses his lips and closes up his empty take-out box. Drains the rest of the Coke bottle. Stretches. Stands.</p><p>Mickey, who’s been facing the TV again, turns to look at him, his brows curious little wrinkles.</p><p>“Probably should go,” Ian says, taking his box and bottle to the trash. “Gotta work in the morning.” </p><p>He glances over at Mickey, who’s twirling his fork absently in the last bit of his spaghetti. “Thanks for dinner.”</p><p>Mickey hums boredly in response. He drops his fork, picks up the can of beer he has held between his legs, and takes a drink he swishes around in his mouth before swallowing.</p><p>“Where ya work?” he asks then, setting the can back between his legs and picking back up his fork. He studies his noodles, swirls them ineffectively on the tines, and brings the to-go box close to his face as he shovels them into his mouth.</p><p>“Um. A diner. Patsy’s Pies.” It embarrasses Ian to admit it to Mickey, a multi-millionaire, and he hates that it does. </p><p>But whatever. A job’s a job. He shifts awkwardly in place and crosses his arms over his chest.</p><p>Mickey just shrugs in response, chews and swallows. “Have fun with that,” he says, and it could be judgy, but it isn’t. </p><p>“I’ll try.” Ian sucks his bottom lip. “So I’m gonna go. Thanks again.”</p><p>Mickey hums and, funnily enough, touches two fingers to his brow and gives Ian a casual salute. “See ya.”</p><p>“DM me or whatever. Whenever.”</p><p>Mickey flips him off with no meaning behind it--like it’s just something to do--and Ian rolls his eyes at him.</p><p>“Bye,” he says, and turns to go.</p><p>And he’s almost at the door when Mickey calls, “‘ey.” </p><p>Ian pauses and turns back.</p><p>“Stop tweetin’ me weird shit.”</p><p>“Fuck off.” Ian gives him the finger and leaves.</p><p>He can barely get the door closed behind him before his face cracks into an embarrassing grin he feels down to his toes.</p><p>Not good.</p><p>---<br/>
---</p><p>So sue Ian for not really disliking Mickey Milkovich that much after all.</p><p>So sue Mickey for actually not being <i>that</i> much of an asshole.</p><p>Well. Okay. </p><p>He is. He very much is. But he’s other things too, and Ian’s decidedly not altogether unhappy with those things.</p><p>He lets himself drift a bit, asleep at the wheel, headed toward the median.</p><p>Whereas a month earlier, Ian was spending much of his leisure time holding himself back from an interest in Mickey in favor of MICK MILK, it occurs to him that he sort of <i>knows</i> Mickey now--a little, maybe. He’s <i>acquainted</i> with him, at least. They’re not friends, and Ian’s certain that a good chunk of the Twitter stans know more factual information about Mickey than he does. But discounting the sex, they’d had awkward room service dinner together, Ian’d shared some stuff about his life, and well, Mickey’d gotten him a Coke without even asking.</p><p>Ian’s fully aware that he’s still just a fan and Mickey’s still just a celebrity and they’re still just hooking up because their bodies fit well together. There’s nothing else to it. </p><p>But it does feel nice to not have to work so hard to avoid thoughts of Mickey Milkovich--Mickey with his Steven Rhodes shirt and the little hole in his sock.</p><p>So for the first time in a while, Ian loosens the reins and allows himself to consume a bit more Mickey-related media. He listens to the podcast when it’s released and hates it just as much as Mickey hated recording it. He likes his YouTube videos again. He likes and replies to his tweets if he has something relevant to say, still under his covert username. </p><p>He doesn’t follow him on Instagram, and he doesn’t DM him at all. </p><p>It’s a thing, he thinks, and one he’s all too happy to maintain.</p><p>---</p><p>At one point in late September, Mickey unknowingly replies to one of Ian’s tweets. </p><p>He tweets to his followers, <i>just bought a 5 lb bag of blue raspberry sour patch kids. rip to my tongue. 💀</i> and Ian, catching the tweet practically the moment it’s posted, replies, <i>Rich people really do have it all</i> 😎.</p><p>He isn’t by any stretch of the imagination expecting a reply. Mickey typically receives upwards of four to five hundred replies to each tweet, and he only responds to two or three, if that. </p><p>So Ian’s surprised when his phone buzzes with an alert barely thirty seconds after he’s sent the tweet.</p><p>
  <i>the only all i give a fuck about is ALL the blue raspberry sour patch kids</i>
</p><p>Okay, Mickey. </p><p>Ian smiles. That’s kinda cute, huh. </p><p>He taps his fingers against the sides of his phone. Likes Mickey’s reply. </p><p>For a moment, he considers whether he should give Mickey some sort of indication that it’s him--maybe by replying with <i>See? I don’t tweet you weird shit.</i> just to see what he does.</p><p>He types out the first few words before shaking his head and quickly erasing it. </p><p>Nope. No. Not gonna do it. </p><p>Ian likes his sliver of anonymity too much.</p><p>He closes out of the app.</p><p>But though he likes being unknown on Twitter--basically an empty account he uses mostly to read his timeline--he doesn’t mind letting Mickey know he’s watching his charity stream in October when he participates in a Spooky Month collab with a handful of other famous YouTubers.</p><p>Mickey advertises it for weeks on all of his social media accounts, touting twenty-four hours of horror games, Mickey taking the 9 PM to 2 AM slot on Night 1 in order to play <i>Song of Horror</i>.</p><p>Ian’s surprisingly okay with visibly tuning in to this, as it somehow feels almost like attending a sporting event of someone he knows.</p><p>He probably shouldn’t be thinking this way, but he can’t help it. He registers for an account on Twitch under a handle similar to his Instagram username and settles in to maybe try to participate in the chat.</p><p>Is this weird of him? Should he be doing it?</p><p>He can’t decide.</p><p>On one hand, he’s sorta fucking the guy, and that makes this whole participate-in-fan-culture thing feel a little forbidden and strange. On the other hand, he may be fucking him, but it’s not like they’re anything to each other. </p><p>He’s not interacting with the fans of his <i>boyfriend</i>. That’d definitely be weird.</p><p>Resigned to uncertainty, Ian stretches out on his bed in the dark, holding his phone above his face, and puts in his earbuds.</p><p>In honor of the Spooky Month theme, Mickey’s changed up his ten-minute countdown. Ian plays around on his phone while he listens to <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IQ3gIhLHM4I">“Hollow Moon (Bad Wolf)”</a> by AWOLNATION, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dCZI2C-tWzM">“Howlin’ for You”</a> by The Black Keys, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SBzTNQTp1W8">“Howling at the Moon (Sha-La-La)”</a> by The Ramones, and finally, Mickey switching on his camera right at the start, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=03hC_Ml8aAM">“Wolf Like Me”</a> by TV On The Radio.</p><p><i>Hmm, I’m sensing a theme here</i> Ian types into the chat, prompting several fans to submit messages ranging from <i>hot werewolf mick</i> 😍 to <i>I think MM’s trying to tell us something guys</i> to <i>BARK</i>.</p><p>The sheer speed of the chat is overwhelming to the point that it makes Ian feel anxious. He hides it from view and instead focuses on Mickey, who’s squinting off to the side, clearly reading what people are writing.</p><p>Ian inhales deeply when he sees the left corner of his lips twitch up for a split second like he’s amused by something. Quickly, Mickey licks the smile off his lips and then, with a barely-there headbob to the beat, drums his fingers on the table to </p><p>
  <i><a href="https://youtu.be/03hC_Ml8aAM?t=60">My mind has changed</a><br/>
My body's frame, but God, I like it<br/>
My heart's aflame<br/>
My body's strained, but God, I like it</i></p><p>He looks like he knows what he’s doing, and he looks like he’s really into the song. Ian remembers from his Wikipedia page that he plays the drums, and watching him here--his floppy hair up top bouncing just slightly with his tiniest of head movements--gives him a surge of heat in his gut.</p><p>Fuck.</p><p>Ian rubs a hand over his face.</p><p>He’s not getting out of this alive, is he?</p><p>Mickey’s got on <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/51e0e2b624b5cbdd6e0bb2402716c94e/8ac1be7e14c627d3-9f/s640x960/f618b109cff76aa140ce013ed75909e12d0bcd35.jpg">a black button-down</a> with white comic-style skulls, ghosts, and monsters on it, and his right thumbnail is fully and freshly painted.</p><p>He’s so stupidly hot.</p><p>---</p><p>When “Bullet With Butterfly Wings” starts up, Mickey reaches out of range of the camera, grabs a pint glass from somewhere containing about an inch of beer, and tilts it back.</p><p>He then sets down the empty glass, swipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and starts playing around with the PlayStation controller sitting on the desk in front of him. As always, he’s doing his best to appear unimpressed and as if he doesn’t currently have over a thousand people watching him. </p><p>With a twisted facial expression like he’s suddenly remembered something, Mickey cuts his camera before the song’s over. When the image comes back three minutes later, Lorde’s cover of <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jlm4QqNAPiE">“Everybody Wants to Rule the World”</a> playing in the interim, he has on a black FUCK U-UP beanie. His expensive white headphones are lopsided on his head, and he’s sipping from a blue Hydro Flask.</p><p>“Waaaassup,” he says in his signature bored tone of voice, adjusting his headphones with one hand.</p><p>He looks off-camera at his computer screen and grouses, “Calm it the fuck down in the chat, will ya? Holy shit.”</p><p>Ian swipes over to the chat and sees it’s going wild with emotes and a mixture of greetings, declarations of love, and random chatter.</p><p>Mickey hums, and Ian swipes back over to watch him rub at his chin. “Hey to uhhhh.” He squints at the screen. “MelonHead. PsychoNoodle. Mr. Prawn. Shil--something? Shillofant? Shellifant? Elephant? Whatever. Sorry. Hey.”</p><p>Ian smiles as he watches him call out a few more people in the chat, then settles in to watch the stream, a tender warmth pooling in his belly.</p><p>---</p><p>He doesn’t participate much in the chat after all, just occasionally sending through a wry taunt or snarky comment that immediately gets buried beneath the deluge of other messages.</p><p>The game’s okay--not the best in the world, but if he’s honest, Ian cares much less about whatever’s going on in the story than he does about the guy playing it.</p><p>Great.</p><p>He exhales a slow stream of air out his pursed lips.</p><p>---</p><p>During the start of the streaming break, rather than a fan dancing to “I Believe in a Thing Called Love,” a fan named Jonah R. plays the drums along with The Misfits’ version of <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4SSZFFQ2XIU">“Monster Mash.”</a></p><p>He’s incredible. So incredible, in fact, that Mickey switches on his mic and camera at the end and says excitedly, “That was honestly fuckin’ badass. God<i>damn</i>!” He gives the camera a quick two-thumbs-up, and it’s adorably nerdy to the point that it makes light burst in Ian’s chest. “Send me a message on Instagram with your address, man, and I’ll send you a FUCK U-UP beanie.” </p><p>And just like that, cute moment over, Mickey cuts the video feed and starts up his creepy-themed break playlist, beginning with <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PCZ2Dp6Is9M">“Heads Will Roll”</a> by Yeah Yeah Yeahs.</p><p>Ian takes advantage of the break, going to the bathroom and washing his face. He leaves his phone on his bed while he’s gone, and when he returns, he sees he has an Instagram DM.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>MICK MILK:</b> 🐺</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Shit.</p><p>Ian presses his fist against his lips to keep from smiling. He double-taps to like Mickey’s message and wonders what the fuck it means that he’s sent this.</p><p>It’s an <i>I see you</i>, clearly, the wolf emoji a reference to Ian’s earlier chat message. But what else? Why’d he send it?</p><p>Oh no oh no oh no.</p><p>---<br/>
---</p><p>It sucks that he sent it because now Ian’s <i>wondering</i> things. Things like <i>So is it cool for me to DM him sometimes now?</i> and <i>Are we maybe like becoming friends? Or something? Could we? Does Mickey </i>want <i>to be?</i></p><p>Obviously, this could all just be Mickey saying <i>Yo!</i> on the down-low because of their, quote-unquote, “situation.” But even then, there’s no reason for him to send it. They’re just acquaintances who’ve fucked three times. They met because Ian was a fan who won a contest, and of course that fan is going to watch a charity stream Mickey’s been posting about for weeks.</p><p>The bottom line is that Mickey didn’t <i>have</i> to send that message. But he did.</p><p>Shit. What the hell’s he supposed to do now?</p><p>Ian knows he’s probably reading too much into this. It’s a fuckin’ wolf emoji. He needs to get a grip.</p><p>He closes out of the Instagram app and drops his phone onto his blankets.</p><p>What the hell is his life right now?</p><p>---</p><p>The charity stream raises nearly $700,000 over a twenty-four hour period. A little over a week later, Mickey retweets and posts to IGTV a video featuring the five YouTubers involved. </p><p>In the video, they thank the viewers and donors for making a difference in the lives of children around the United States by supporting the development of programs that will assist those who have been abused or neglected.</p><p>At the end, the YouTubers announce that they will be collectively donating an additional $300,000 to make the grand total $1,000,000.</p><p><i>this is fucking insane!</i> Mickey tweets along with the video. <i>you dope-ass motherfuckers!</i> 🤘🤘🤘🤘 <i>if you missed the stream keep donating through the upfc site and post screenshots of your donation confirmation on ig. tag me and i’ll post as many as i can to my story.</i></p><p>Ian likes the tweet and thinks the guy might be at least a little bit of a good person.</p><p>Mickey’s super active on social media that night, spending a good hour intermittently replying to tweets and posting fans’ donation receipt screenshots to his Instagram story. He even goes live for five minutes in order to encourage people to keep donating.</p><p>“I ain’t one of those motherfuckers sittin’ in his ivory tower wantin’ everybody to give up their minimum-wage paycheck,” he says, voice uncharacteristically soft, like he’s nervous. He scratches the tip of his nose with his thumbnail. “No like, pressure or guilt or whatever, but donate if you can. There’s just a lotta fucked up shit that goes on, and kids can’t help what they go through, y’know. And it’s bullshit, so. If you can.”</p><p>He shrugs, eyes leaving the camera, peering off to the side, and then slowly wandering back.</p><p>He’s wearing <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/54672ada2d7e46553d6630c228b338e8/452a842020542f74-71/s640x960/de2b530e577f885ca69562736bdac0be76ffce67.jpg">a yellow hoodie</a> featuring an embroidered image of a purple head with bulging eyes that say <i>BRAINDEAD</i>. His earrings are white this time, and he’s sitting on a black couch in what could be the living room of his house. Ian can see framed Keith Haring art prints on the back wall behind him.</p><p>“Anyway,” Mickey says, voice picking up just a touch. “Probably can’t get to all your tagged receipts, but I’ll post what I can.”</p><p>And just like that, as awkward and sudden as anything, he gives a quick goodbye nod and ends the live.</p><p>Ian’s at work when he watches it, sitting sideways in one of the back booths because business is slow and he’s on a ten-minute break. He’s got a half-eaten slice of cherry pie in front of him and is steadily sipping at a mug of terrible coffee.</p><p>He scrolls through social media for a couple minutes, checking his timeline and then his email for the first time in nearly a month, and he’s just about to get up and head back to the kitchen when his phone vibrates.</p><p>It’s a direct message notification.</p><p>Shit shit shit and oh no.</p><p>He takes a deep breath.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>MICK MILK:</b> what are you doing for halloween?</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Ian looks around, feeling exposed all of a sudden, like he’s about to participate in arranging a hook-up in broad daylight.</p><p>Heart hammering, he replies.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian Gallagher:</b> Nothing</p><p><b>Ian Gallagher:</b> Why?</p><p>------------------------</p><p>It takes a minute for Mickey to respond, and Ian really needs to go. He stands from the table. Taps his toe, impatient.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>MICK MILK:</b> i’ll be in milwaukee</p><p><b>MICK MILK:</b> couple hours away i know, but i’ll get you a bus ticket if you wanna meet up</p><p>------------------------</p><p>“Yo, Ian!” the assistant manager calls from behind the window. “You’re on the clock.”</p><p>“Got it.”</p><p>Hurriedly, Ian messages Mickey back before shoving his phone in his pocket.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian Gallagher:</b> Yeah </p><p><b>Ian Gallagher:</b> Send me details when you have them</p><p>------------------------</p><p>He feels his phone vibrate in his pocket multiple times over the next several minutes as he’s bussing tables. And when he finally gets a chance to look at it, he purses his lips. Rubs at his brow with the side of his finger.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>MICK MILK:</b> cool</p><p><b>MICK MILK:</b> i will</p><p><b>MICK MILK:</b> if you’re gonna watch all my stories you can just go ahead and follow me so you can get alert notifs</p><p>------------------------</p><p>He smirks. Sure, Mickey.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian Gallagher:</b> Never</p><p><b>Ian Gallagher:</b> Unless you follow me first, then ok</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Ian gets off an hour later, and he spends most of the commute home messaging back and forth with Mickey, who’s apparently splitting his time between charity promo and DMs, his response time anywhere from two to five minutes each.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>MICK MILK:</b> ain’t gonna happen</p><p><b>Ian Gallagher:</b> Then I ain’t ever gonna follow you, so deal with it 😎</p><p><b>MICK MILK:</b> why are you so fuckin commited to this</p><p><b>Ian Gallagher:</b> Principle</p><p><b>MICK MILK:</b> annoying</p><p><b>Ian Gallagher:</b> Why do you care so much?</p><p><b>MICK MILK:</b> i don’t</p><p><b>MICK MILK:</b> stfu</p><p><b>Ian Gallagher:</b> Fine</p><p><b>MICK MILK:</b> you’re the worst</p><p><b>Ian Gallagher:</b> So you’ve said</p><p>------------------------</p><p>He’s such a prick. Ian pockets his phone when he gets home and definitely doesn’t spend the rest of the night thinking about him.</p><p>---<br/>
---</p><p>Fiona knows something’s up with him, but she doesn’t pry.</p><p>“I’m not your mother,” she asserts, holding up her hands when he shrugs off her questioning about his Halloween plans that night.</p><p>He knows it’s hard for her--negotiating between not being their mom and yet very much being their legal guardian, but she does okay. She doesn’t get in Ian’s business though he knows she worries about him--too much, most of the time, watching him too closely, hugging on him when he’s acting down. He knows she counts his pills.</p><p>It’s fine. He hates it, but it is what it is. He understands why she does it. Understands he’s not right in the head sometimes. Understands he fucked up two years ago and can’t really be trusted by his family anymore.</p><p>He lives with it. Deals with it.</p><p>He just shrugs at Fiona when she watches him put his dinnertime meds in his pocket  and tells him to be careful with <i>whatever he’s doing</i>.</p><p>Sure. He’ll be careful.</p><p>---</p><p>As explained in a DM he received the night before, Mickey has a will call ticket waiting for him at the Greyhound station. Ian picks it up and boards for a 5:00 departure. </p><p>It’s a nearly two-hour bus ride to Milwaukee, then a short walk to <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/5caac5e83261e9cef27d48500ea1a1ab/1d5475b06117f913-77/s2048x3072/732e4e6f70bd076415747c85237fd442150c8114.jpg">the hotel</a>, which is really a little ridiculous and looks more like an art museum than a place to stay for the night. Or for a few hours. Or for however long Ian’s here.</p><p>Is he staying the night? He didn’t bring clothes, assuming it’d be another fuck and run, as Mickey had referred to it as a “meet up.”</p><p>The last Greyhound to Chicago leaves at 10:35, so Ian can spend at most a good two and a half hours in the hotel room before he needs to head out. Plenty of time.</p><p>He checks his watch. 7:19.</p><p>Before he enters the hotel, Ian pulls his phone from his pocket to re-check the room number and sees Mickey’s sent him three DMs.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>MICK MILK:</b> thing’s running over royally, be there at like 9</p><p><b>MICK MILK:</b> reception has a key for you, tell them your name</p><p><b>MICK MILK:</b> get room service if you want</p><p>------------------------</p><p>If Mickey gets there at nine, that leaves them an hour. Fine.</p><p>Free food and TV while he waits.</p><p>Ian walks through the doors to <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/c7fc51fe7f4d68ea7ce84e1cbb34c5f5/1d5475b06117f913-52/s1280x1920/e70bcacbfe2305a8f4a80856cb3379a2f8571dc6.jpg">a lobby</a> that features a horse sculpture made out of sticks and modern art on the walls, giving the room a museum entrance feel. He retrieves his key from reception after showing his ID, and gets a heart-thump when the man behind the desk asks if he’s with Mikhailo Milkovich.</p><p>Ian has no idea if the man pronounces <i>Mikhailo</i> correctly, as he’s never heard it spoken aloud. He simply nods shakily, accepts the keycard, and then heads to the elevators to go up to the room.</p><p>He wonders--once off the elevator and making his way down the fourth floor hallway--whether Mickey’s management knows about him. Whether Mo knows.</p><p>She’d seemed the type to have intel on things like this. Had seemed to be legitimate friends with Mickey--enough, at least, that she gave him spontaneous side-hugs and didn’t mind his middle-finger-laced antics.</p><p>Ian finds the room, scans the card, and pushes the door open after hearing the <i>beep</i>.</p><p>Then again, Mickey’s management knowing about Ian would imply there’s something to know, and there isn’t. Not unless they want to be notified of every dick Mickey gets, which Ian doubts. There’s gotta be a lot, right? It’s sorta part of the <i>Rich and Famous</i> life, isn’t it, getting regular sex from any number of hot guys. He’s seen the entertainment documentaries. He knows the drill.</p><p>---</p><p>Ian doesn’t know why he assumed otherwise, but when he enters <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/bc62648b16941b1c91aeb4dbfb9ade9e/03b648987dcc0856-87/s1280x1920/34e3017ca58c3a5255a2308405697419ea4e5eae.jpg">the room</a>, he finds that Mickey’s already been there.</p><p>There’s an empty beer bottle on the nightstand, an open suitcase on the couch by the window, and when he sticks his head in <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/de10ee52f786aeef6862923acf56ab4b/51afcde096d015e9-8f/s2048x3072/bfc8083f18a03807ae75a783e6f3b759751f6a4c.jpg">the bathroom</a> and turns on the light, he finds an open, zippered toiletry pouch spread out by the sink.</p><p>Ian’s slightly amazed that Mickey’s allowing him to be here, as he could easily steal some of his shit and leave. If it were five years ago and he were here with Lip, he thinks the two of them absolutely would have.</p><p>But tonight, Ian simply walks further into the room, flips on the lights, and has a seat on the end of the bed.</p><p>It’s a cool room, very deep blue, gray, and yellow. There’s a desk with drawing paper, a record player, and strangely, a ukulele propped up on the couch beside Mickey’s suitcase.</p><p>According to a paper Mickey’d apparently dropped carelessly onto the bed, these things come with the room, intended to <i>inspire creativity</i> in the guests. Sounds a little bullshit, but whatever. </p><p>Ian finds the remote, flips on the TV, and then looks around for a room service menu.</p><p>He orders two steak and fries meals, Cokes, and salted caramel brownie desserts for a whopping $112 charged to the room--gratuity included. He’d decided he should get something for Mickey, too, and figured if he didn’t want it, Ian’d just take it home for his family.</p><p>While he waits on the food, he <i>does</i> snoop a little, even though he tries not to be too weird or invasive, treating the whole thing as casually and naturally as he can.</p><p>He moves over to the couch and just glances down at Mickey’s open suitcase--as if he’s looking out the window and simply happens to let his eyes wander. Sees a pair of jeans, some T-shirts, a black hoodie, and two pairs of boxer briefs.</p><p>Next, he uses the bathroom, then peeks at Mickey’s toiletry pouch as he washes his hands. Notes the Aqua Reef scented Old Spice deodorant, the electric razor, Sonicare toothbrush, and toothpaste.</p><p>There’s also a CVS prescription bottle. Ian feels bad, but he pokes it with his finger, tilting it just enough to see the label.</p><p>Sertraline. 50 mg. Directions for 1 1/2 tablets per day, so 75 mg total.</p><p>Ian googles it on his phone. Zoloft. Often prescribed for depression, anxiety, panic attacks, OCD, PTSD. He shouldn’t see this. Shouldn’t know this.</p><p>He quickly leaves the bathroom.</p><p>---</p><p>His food arrives at 8:40, and he eats it on the bed while watching <i>Hocus Pocus</i> on Freeform. He takes his meds.</p><p>At 8:58, he hears the electronic whir of the door unlocking.</p><p>He coughs, briefly choking on the fry in his mouth. Fuck. Takes a fast slurp off his Coke.</p><p>Ian just manages to compose himself when Mickey shoves open the door, eyebrows raised, carrying a cloth <i>MynaBird Games</i> bag on one shoulder and a small messenger bag on the other.</p><p>He looks tired, his eyes pinkish like he’s just rubbed at them and the faintest of dark circles beginning to appear beneath.</p><p>“Hey,” Ian greets from the bed. </p><p>Mickey nods at him. “‘ey.” He walks further into the room, passing the bed, and sets down his bags over by the desk.</p><p>Now illuminated in the lamp lights, Ian gets a good look at him.</p><p>He’s got on a dark navy <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/ba18b4c39111e919184f8fe717f6c68f/49fccfb8cdf5e19d-28/s2048x3072/f6db1fd033f70d73244a4b82337ad0f86af05595.jpg">sweatshirt</a> with a brightly-colored embroidered design on the front and skinny jeans with rips in the knees. On his head is his red <i>scared yet?</i> beanie.</p><p>Mickey plucks it off and tosses it onto his open suitcase.</p><p>“I got you food if you want it,” Ian offers, pointing to the boxed up meal near the foot of the bed. “I didn’t know what you liked, but I figured everybody likes steak and fries.”</p><p>Mickey scratches at the back of his neck and walks closer. “Um. Yeah. Thanks,” he says, picking up the box and looking around the room, appearing lost.</p><p>Ian knows what’s up. There’s no seating area except for the lone--currently full--couch. There’s a desk, but it also has shit all over it.</p><p>Mickey takes a deep breath and sits down on the bed with Ian.</p><p>They eat in silence for a few minutes, the air charged and tense. But during a commercial break in the movie, Ian decides to bite the bullet and asks, “So why’d the thing run late?” Ian doesn’t actually even know what the <i>thing</i> is.</p><p>Mickey pulls his legs up on the bed with him, criss-cross style, then rests the take-out box on his lap and shrugs. “Bullshit, mostly. Tech issues.”</p><p>“What were you doing?”</p><p>“Mm. MynaBird had a screening thing for their new game. Some cinematic shit that’s gonna suck. I was like…” He scoffs and lowers his brows. “The <i>celebrity guest</i> or whatever.”</p><p>Mickey’s cheeks go a little pink, and he turns away from Ian, eyes focused intently on his food.</p><p>Ian grins at his embarrassed reaction. “Oh yeah?”</p><p>“Yeah. Shut up.”</p><p>“But you <i>are</i> a celebrity.”</p><p>“Whatever.”</p><p>They eat in silence for another minute.</p><p>“You didn’t like, go through my shit, did you?” Mickey asks grouchily when the commercial break’s over, and once again, Ian can’t tell whether or not he’s joking.</p><p>“Thought about it,” he says, meeting his tone head-on. “Thought about stealing all your rich people shit and leaving.”</p><p>Mickey shrugs. “Why didn’t you?” And he says it like, <i>I wouldn’t blame you if you did. Would’ve been a smart move.</i></p><p>“Mm. I dunno. Really wanted dinner, I guess.” As if to prove his point, he shovels in a bite of steak. “Got dessert, too,” he adds with his mouth full, kicking his leg out toward the shelf beneath the TV, where two small take-out boxes rest.</p><p>“That’s the only reason you’re here, right?” Mickey deadpans, and Ian can’t help but smile.</p><p>“Obviously.”</p><p>“Mm. Good to know.”</p><p>“Very.”</p><p>It’s flirtatious. Ian’s stomach flutters as he takes the last bite of his steak and gets up to grab the dessert boxes.</p><p>---</p><p>The two of them end up watching the rest of <i>Hocus Pocus</i> as they finish their food and then even after, when they’re simply sitting together on the bed, meal detritus in the trash.</p><p>“Haven’t seen this shit in forever,” Mickey comments, knocking back the beer he’d gotten up to retrieve from the mini-fridge.</p><p>“Wanna know a secret?”</p><p>Mickey turns to look at him, eyebrow raised.</p><p>“When I was a kid,” Ian confesses, leaning back against the headboard, “I used to have this little black cat stuffed animal I named Thackery Binx. Think I had a crush on him in his human form.”</p><p>Mickey snorts loudly and rolls gracelessly off the bed. “Fuckin’ gay,” he says, heading toward the bathroom and dropping his empty beer bottle in the trash on his way past.</p><p>Ian rolls his eyes at his back. Checks his watch. 9:46. </p><p>Fuck. If he’s going to make it to the station and buy a ticket in time for the 10:35 departure, he has fifteen minutes before he needs to leave.</p><p>They wasted too much time watching TV.</p><p>Ian sits up and taps his palms silently against the bed, impatient. </p><p>Should he tell Mickey?</p><p>Ian’s fine with not having sex tonight. That’s not the problem. The problem is that he’s pretty sure Mickey DMed him specifically so that they could hook up--not so they could watch 90s Halloween movies together while eating brownies.</p><p>He’s also pretty sure that though he’d be fine not fucking tonight, Ian’d also sorta had his heart set on it.</p><p>He reaches into his pocket for his phone. And he’s a second away from googling for a cheap motel in the area he can crash in after he inevitably misses the bus due to sex when the bathroom door opens.</p><p>Ian’s heart stops.</p><p>Mickey’s stripped down to a pair of black, slim-fit boxers, and he’s carrying his clothes in a bundle that he walks across the room and dumps messily on top of his open suitcase.</p><p>Ian swallows. He takes that as his cue to strip down, as well.</p><p>Climbing off the bed, he quickly sheds his clothes, pulling off his gray henley and wiggling out of his jeans. He almost trips pulling them off his legs, inspiring a snort-like chuckle from Mickey, who’s slowly making his way toward the bed.</p><p>“Slow down there, man,” he says, amused.</p><p>With one final kick, Ian gets his pants and boxers off. He quickly walks up behind Mickey and gets his hands on his soft waist, just above the band of his underwear.</p><p>His skin is warm from being beneath his sweatshirt all night, and when Ian leans in a little, just to see, just to touch his forehead to his neck, he smells a faint trace of sweat but mostly the fading spice of cologne and a hint of fresh, citrusy deodorant.</p><p>He lifts his arm. Checks his watch. 9:56. Maybe he can still make it?</p><p>He runs through what he can remember of the money in his wallet as he gently walks Mickey toward the bed. He definitely has enough for a $20 return ticket. Maybe a little extra. He’s got his tips from last night, too, so maybe fifty, sixty bucks total? Enough for a cheap-ass motel. </p><p>Fuck. Whatever. He breathes out a sigh as he follows Mickey onto the bed.</p><p>---</p><p>They fuck up against the headboard this time, Mickey gripping the plush-covered wood in his hands and moaning as Ian moves in him quickly, hips thrusting fast, fast, fast as he leans in and bites at the back of his neck.</p><p>“Fuckin’ Energizer Bunny,” Mickey comments breathlessly, words coming out in stutters from the force of the thrusts, and Ian laughs because fuck, yeah, okay. God. </p><p>He slows his hips.</p><p>“Not complainin’, just.” Mickey huffs. Ian presses his mouth against the curve of his shoulder and sucks on him, sliding his hands around his waist to make a grab for his dick.</p><p>He brings him off quickly, fist moving in a wet, rapid little blur--even in counter to his slowing hips--and Mickey, as if taken by surprise, tilts his head back onto Ian’s shoulder and lets out a high noise, mouth open, face pointed toward the ceiling.</p><p>Ian presses his cheek against Mickey’s and inhales-exhales in fast, shaky puffs and then comes to the feel of Mickey squeezing around him and the growing wetness in his fist.</p><p>Fuck, fuck, he’s so good. Mickey’s so fucking good.</p><p>He turns his head, nose to Mickey’s cheek, and breathes. Pants. Mickey makes a soft sound and leans back into him, weight pressed against Ian’s chest to the point that Ian almost has to sit down in order to keep from falling backward.</p><p>He slides his hands back to Mickey’s hips and gently brushes them up and down his sides, feeling the softness, the warmth, the heaves of his breaths.</p><p>“Shit,” he whispers, moving his palms to the front and touching at Mickey’s soft little belly with just the hint of hair trailing beneath.</p><p>The other man doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to move any time soon, but Ian pulls back after a minute, eyes wandering to the digital clock on the nightstand. 10:09. He sighs.</p><p>Mickey exhales heavily, and together, the two of them drop to the bed, rolling onto their backs beside each other. Ian gets his hand to his dick and tugs off the condom, leaning to the side and tossing it at the trash, where it lands in a little flop just over the lip of the chrome bin. Ah well. He twists back, flat. Stares at the ceiling.</p><p>Checks his watch. 10:10.</p><p>Mickey snuffles a little, tired, and Ian turns his head to watch him.</p><p>His cheeks are deep pink with a pleasure-flush that trails down the center of his chest, and at his temples are beads of sweat. His upper lip’s shiny with it, and Ian spends much too long staring at his mouth, which is parted for air so he can work on catching his breath.</p><p>He blows out his breath and checks his watch again. 10:11. Wonders if the Super 8 by the airport has an available room. He leans gracelessly over the side of the bed to grab his discarded jeans, then pulls out his phone from his pocket.</p><p>“Got a hot date or somethin’?” Mickey asks, curious, the sound cutting through the silence so suddenly that Ian’s belly gives a surprised jump.</p><p>Ian bites his lip and turns his head to face Mickey, who’s looking at him with his brows furrowed.</p><p>“Maybe.”</p><p>With a snort and an eye roll, Mickey rolls off the bed and wanders over to the mini-fridge, which he opens with his foot and then bends to grab two waters. He tosses one to Ian from across the room and almost gets him in the gut.</p><p>“Fuck,” Ian complains, sitting up and grabbing the water from where it landed on the bed. He cracks the seal and chugs half of it in one go. “Thanks.”</p><p>“Don’t mention it.” There’s a weird look on Mickey’s face as he stands six feet away and idly rolls his unopened water bottle back and forth across his left palm.</p><p>Ian watches him, eyes wandering up and down his naked body. It occurs to him then that this is his first time seeing Mickey entirely nude from the front--at least standing, and at least in a position in which it’s easy to examine him without looking like a total perv.</p><p>He’s pretty great looking, his body small but solid, compact, and his thighs soft yet strong. Opposites. A contradiction. </p><p>When Mickey finally opens his bottle of water and brings it to his mouth to take a long drink, Ian watches his torso stretch up, sees one side of his rib cage is slightly malformed, that bump-bump-bump that felt a little too bumpy under his fingers. You can’t tell at all when he’s standing normally, but Ian notices it now, Mickey’s chest expanding with his deep breaths as he chugs his water, making the asymmetry just a touch more apparent.</p><p>He doesn’t ask. It could be a birth defect. It could be anything. Ian moves his eyes away from Mickey’s body and drinks a bit more of his water.</p><p>After capping the bottle, he sets it on the nightstand and climbs off the bed to search around for his clothes. He better get going.</p><p>There’s the <i>snnnnick</i> of Mickey’s lighter, and Ian looks up as he’s pulling on his underwear to see Mickey standing over by the couch, smoking. He’s watching him, brows lowered as he smokes, and Ian suddenly feels self-conscious under his gaze.</p><p>“What?” he asks, adjusting his boxers on his waist.</p><p>“You got like somewhere to be, or…?”</p><p>“Um.” Ian reaches to grab his jeans, then shakes them out straight. “Just figured I’d get outta your hair. You’ve probably got an early flight.”</p><p>Mickey sniffs, and Ian pauses pulling on his jeans to watch him shift awkwardly on his feet, like he doesn’t know what to do with them. </p><p>“Flight’s at noon,” he murmurs, face quickly changing from nervous to calm, cool, collected. He takes a drag of his cigarette and blows the smoke out in a little stream.</p><p>Smoking in a non-smoking room.</p><p>Ian smiles.</p><p>“‘kay,” he says, working his jeans up his legs, feeling exposed, sliced, diced, placed under a microscope.</p><p>“I mean,” Mickey starts. Doesn’t finish.</p><p>Ian pauses again and looks at him.</p><p>“I mean, you can like, I dunno. <i>Stay</i>. If you want.” His eyes flit to the clock, then back to Ian. “Kinda late to go back to Chicago. I mean, maybe. I dunno.”</p><p>Ian’s heart leaps, and a pleasant, exhilarating tingle begins to zip its way up and down his spine as he watches Mickey fidget. As he watches him hold his cigarette between his lips and move over to his boxers, which are lying near the foot of the bed, and unceremoniously pull them on.</p><p>“Um. Yeah.” Ian stops pulling up his jeans. “That’d actually be good. Thanks.”</p><p>Mickey nods at him as if it’s nothing--as if he hasn’t just invited Ian to sleep over, as if he hasn’t just done something so monumental that Ian’ll be thinking about it for weeks and weeks.</p><p>He passes by the bed, still smoking, and goes to the bathroom. Ian pulls off his jeans, folds them up, and sets them on the shelf beneath the TV, then does the same with his shirt.</p><p>Mickey’s in the bathroom for a while, and Ian finds himself standing awkwardly in his boxers, arms crossed over his chest. Finally, deciding to stop acting so fucking weird, he grabs the remote, climbs back on the bed, and turns up the volume on <i>Beetlejuice</i>.</p><p>When Mickey finally exits the bathroom, he looks fully ready for bed. His face is shiny from being washed, he’s taken out his earrings, causing him to look a little naked, and he’s wiping the corner of his mouth like he’s just brushed his teeth.</p><p>Ian wonders if he took his medication.</p><p>That’s really none of his fucking business, and even though he’ll never tell anyone about it, he still feels bad for knowing it--just him, even. Mickey’s private, and that’s fine. He’s allowed to be. He’s allowed to have struggles like anybody else, and he’s allowed to not let other people know about them.</p><p>Ian drinks the last little bit of his water and then tosses the empty bottle at the trash can, making it easily and even managing to knock the gross, drying condom all the way in. Score.</p><p>He turns and finds Mickey standing awkwardly over by the other nightstand like he’s about to start tugging away the pillows so he can pull down the covers and get in.</p><p>Fuck. He’s tired, isn’t he? Ian’d noticed it when he’d walked in after his event tonight. He probably wants to sleep.</p><p>Quickly, Ian turns down the volume on the TV and climbs off the bed, giving Mickey free reign of his sleeping space.</p><p>“I’ll take the couch,” he says, making his way over to the short sofa with clothes all over it and a random ukulele on the pillow. He picks up the ukulele and plucks at the strings.</p><p>“What?” Mickey asks, prompting Ian to turn to face him, holding the instrument against his belly.</p><p>Ian looks at him. “Obviously not gonna kick you outta the bed.”</p><p>Mickey pulls back the comforter and sits down on the mattress. “Do whatever you want, man,” he says, the bored tone of his voice coming across as forced and uncomfortable. “But I thought we’d like, fuck some more or whatever.”</p><p>He <i>chhh</i>s and looks around, reaching up to grab at the back of his neck as he seemingly avoids Ian’s eyes. It’s unbearably sweet and just as unbearably awkward. It hits Ian all at once that he’s being shy as hell about this.</p><p>His heart hurts.</p><p>“Uh,” he starts. “Yeah. Okay.”</p><p>“I just thought,” Mickey continues, “might be like, easier if we’re both in the bed or whatever. I dunno. Whatever you wanna do, man.”</p><p>“Oh. Yeah. Yes.” Ian sets down the uke and trudges back to the bed, where Mickey’s getting comfortable and switching off the nightstand lamp.</p><p>He turns off the lamp on his side and gently pulls back the covers so he can climb in beside Mickey.</p><p>Holy fuck. </p><p>Holy actual fuck.</p><p>Once in, he pulls the covers up under his armpits and stares at the ceiling, listening to the faint murmur of <i>Beetlejuice</i> and Mickey’s breaths.</p><p>“You gonna turn that shit up or what?” Mickey asks, and Ian turns his head to see he’s leaned up on an elbow, nodding toward the TV.</p><p>Ian blows out a breath and grabs the remote to raise the volume.</p><p>And he’s leaning over to set it back on the nightstand when he just breaks, all the awkward tension reaching a head and collapsing in one laughter-filled pile of nonsense.</p><p>“Shit,” Ian laughs, pushing up on his elbows so he can fully assess his situation. He feels the bed shake, and he glances over to Mickey’s who’s laughing, too, in little breaths.</p><p>“What the fuck, man,” Mickey says, and Ian feels him kick him under the covers.</p><p>Ian pulls the blanket up over his face until he’s able to contain himself, and well, shit.</p><p>Okay. Fine. Yeah.</p><p>This is fucking awkward, and it’s okay that it is. They’re being weird.</p><p>Ian pulls the covers back down and scoots up against the pillows. And for the next hour, he and Mickey watch <i>Beetlejuice</i> together in bed.</p><p>This might just be the strangest night of his life, but whatever, it’s all just fucking fine.</p><p>---</p><p>When the movie’s over, Ian gets up to pee, and when he returns, Mickey’s got the TV off. In the dim light from the windows, Ian notices that lube and a condom are on the nightstand.</p><p>Rather than beat around the bush, Ian climbs onto the bed and walks on his knees up to Mickey, who’s sitting up near the headboard.</p><p>He sticks his fingers in the band of his boxers and starts to pull them down, and he watches as Mickey shifts around and does the same, getting them off and then tossing them onto the floor.</p><p>Ian wonders what belly-down position Mickey’s going to go with tonight. They’ve done over the bed twice, over the couch, against the headboard. Maybe he’ll get up on all fours from the start and Ian’ll bang him straight-up doggy style.</p><p>He reaches for the lube and condom.</p><p>But before he’s able to pop the cap on the Astroglide, Mickey shoves him over onto his back. A little puff of air escapes Ian’s lips.</p><p>“Fuckin’ Energizer Bunny,” he repeats from earlier, taking Ian’s dick in his hand.</p><p>And shit. <i>Okay</i>.</p><p>This is the first time it’s happened like this--the first time Mickey’s had his hand around him. Ian huffs and huffs as Mickey strokes him, bringing him to hardness. His hand is small and warm, a little too dry to build up a smooth stroke but pleasant. Good.</p><p>Mickey jerks him like that’s all he plans on doing, which is fine, but Ian can’t help but get his hands up around his ribs, touching and pulling, needing.</p><p>Mickey pulls his hand away and takes the condom from where Ian’s left it by the pillow. He opens it. Slides it down Ian’s dick.</p><p>And Ian’s about to tip him over--is about to push him onto his belly so he can get up behind him--when Mickey throws a leg over Ian’s hips and settles on his upper thighs.</p><p>Holy shit. Ian feels his ass and his balls warm and snug against his skin. He reaches out and touches at Mickey’s knees, which are framing his own hips, then slides his hands higher to rub his thick thighs.</p><p>He breathes hard, moving his hands away to grab the lube, then slicks up the condom. </p><p>Ian thinks he knows what’s happening--what Mickey wants to do--and God, he loves it. He loves it too much. His stomach clenches.</p><p>Mickey gets up on his knees and walks forward, and Ian coats two fingers and slides them around behind, easily getting Mickey ready with just a series of thrusts and the smearing of lube where he needs it.</p><p>“Okay,” Ian whispers, more to himself than to Mickey, who pushes up higher until he’s fully on his knees, hovering over Ian’s cock. “Okay, okay.”</p><p>Fuck, he loves this way too much.</p><p>He takes himself in hand and helps guide his dick inside Mickey, who’s got his eyes squeezed shut, mouth dropped open. It’s the hottest thing Ian’s ever seen, and he can hardly handle the slow downward slide, the tightness giving way to softness.</p><p>Oh no oh no oh no.</p><p>When Mickey’s fully seated, he presses his palms to Ian’s chest, and Ian takes him by the waist.</p><p>And together, the two of them rock in the darkness, in the quiet, nothing but soft pants and groans breaking the calm.</p><p>Oh no oh no oh no.</p><p>He wasn’t expecting this, and it feels so good. So, so unbearably good.</p><p>Ian’s fucked a lot of people. Due to reasons he doesn’t want to think about, he doesn’t know how many. He’s lost count. He didn’t care to count.</p><p>Mickey Milkovich feels better than every one of them combined, his body perfect inside, perfect everywhere--his soft skin, his squishiness over hard muscle, his pretty face and his sweet ears with the earrings removed, making his lobes look vulnerable.</p><p>His furry knees brushing against Ian’s sides when he lifts up and down in a slow rock. His pants and his moans.</p><p>Ian drags his hands up from his hips and around to his back, scrabbling against his skin, which is smooth and silky. Perfect.</p><p>And fuck.</p><p>Oh no oh no oh no.</p><p>It’s been three minutes, maybe four. Ian presses his head back into the pillows and gasps.</p><p>“Fuck,” Mickey whispers. “Oh fuck.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Ian says--straight-up full-voiced <i>says</i>, in agreement mostly. He’s losing it. “Yeah.”</p><p>He groans, and he pushes up, and Mickey rocks on him for twenty, thirty seconds more before Ian comes with a heavy, shaky exhale.</p><p>“Shit, Mickey,” he breathes, the tingles sizzling up his spine, around to his pelvis, out through his cock and into the condom. Mickey’s squeezing rhythmically around him, on purpose, getting him through it. “Fuck.”</p><p>When he’s done, he opens his eyes to find Mickey staring down at him, unamused and yet entirely amused, the corner of his mouth tilted up though his eyes are hard. Forced. Fake.</p><p>Yeah. Okay. Whatever you say. Be that way if you have to.</p><p>He called him “Mickey” when he came. He doesn’t even care.</p><p>“Jesus Christ, dude,” Mickey grumbles, giving Ian a light smack to his chest. </p><p>“Sorry.”</p><p>“Quick Draw fuckin’ McGraw.”</p><p>“Asshole.” Ian smiles up at him, still panting, and Mickey touches both palms back to his chest. Rubs his fingers across Ian’s chest hair, which is starting to come in a little bit--a coating of light ginger fuzz across his pecs.</p><p>Mickey should probably get off him for safety’s sake--for not-having-a-condom-slide-off-in-his-ass’s sake--but whatever. Ian keeps his left arm around Mickey’s waist, rubbing him in circles at his lower back, and brings his right hand around to his cock.</p><p>His own dick’s not <i>entirely</i> soft, and Ian thinks he could probably get it up and even come again if Mickey gave him ten minutes and looked at him in a certain way.</p><p>But it’s fine.</p><p>He runs his fingers over the slippery surface of Mickey’s cock, playing with the head, and then starts up a moderately-paced stroke.</p><p>Mickey closes his eyes and leans forward, and--again, probably a bad idea--Ian gets his legs up, feet to the mattress, and moves in him a little--as much as he can, at least--just a steady pressure to get him going as he moves his hand faster.</p><p>When Mickey pants, Ian smells wintergreen toothpaste on his breath, and when he groans, Ian feels the air from Mickey’s lungs brush over his lashes, his brows.</p><p>“Fuck, fuck,” Mickey whispers, and Ian strokes and strokes and brings him to a shaking orgasm, rubbing at his back all the while.</p><p>He comes on Ian’s torso, three, four warm little jets skimming up to his chest, and it’s ridiculously hot.</p><p>Holy shit. Holy fucking shit.</p><p>And it’s even better when Mickey collapses on him, belly to belly. Ian rubs his hand up and down his back for what must be a new record time before Mickey gets cat-wiggly and grumpy again.</p><p>“Okay, okay, soft motherfucker,” he murmurs, sitting up.</p><p>Ian reaches around and grasps the base of the condom, letting Mickey pull off without incident.</p><p>He’s a little hard, could come again probably, but it’s totally okay. Mickey’s tired. </p><p>Ian sits up, disposes of the condom, and then grabs a tissue from the nightstand to wipe off his chest. He takes another and hands it to Mickey, who gives himself a cursory wipe before balling up the tissue and tossing it onto the floor.</p><p>“You’re a slob, you know that?” Ian asks, sliding back under the covers and pulling them up to his chest.</p><p>“Shut up, princess. Go to sleep.”</p><p>And that’s that.</p><p>Ian falls asleep three feet away from multi-millionaire celebrity YouTuber MICK MILK, who’s really just Mikhailo--Ambiguous Pronunciation--Milkovich, and all feels right for the moment.</p><p>Calm. Serene. Entirely uncomplicated.</p><p>---</p><p>Ian gets up at three to pee and to do a bit better of a job at cleaning his chest, which has a few itchy bits of dried come stuck to the little hairs there. </p><p>When he returns, he finds Mickey’s starfished, having rolled to the center of the bed and outstretched his arms and legs.</p><p>Shit.</p><p>Ian does his best to squeeze in, ending up on his side mere inches from the edge. Mickey stays on his belly, and Ian on occasion will feel his leg hairs tickling the back of his thigh under the covers.</p><p>---</p><p>They sleep late. Ian wakes in a bit of a panic, his eyes first landing on an unfamiliar ceiling, then on the alarm clock, revealing that it’s nearly nine. Does he work today? He can’t remember right off the bat. </p><p>No. No, he doesn’t, he decides.</p><p>He breathes.</p><p>Finally, at the sensation of a shifting beneath his armpit, he turns his head to the left to find something that causes his belly to twist and heart to surge right up into his throat.</p><p>Ian’s lying on his back, left arm outstretched, and Mickey’s turned on his side, facing the other direction, the top of his head tucked right in Ian’s armpit. Ian could turn on his side, toss his right arm over, and they’d be spooning.</p><p>Heart still pounding, he considers moving away. Getting up.</p><p>He doesn’t.</p><p>Instead, Ian keeps his head turned on his pillow, remains still as stone, and watches Mickey sleep.</p><p>Due to his elevated position on the pillows, he can see most of his face.</p><p>Mickey looks so sweet and unbothered, all the harsh lines smoothed, his brows and mouth relaxed, his cheeks sleep-flushed.</p><p>He’s beautiful.</p><p>And maybe there’s still a bit of <i>oh no oh no oh no</i>, but Ian likes him. He does.</p><p>He likes MICK MILK, who’s smart and funny and fascinating to watch. </p><p>He likes Mickey Milkovich, who watches Halloween movies and gets soft after sex. Who trusted Ian alone in his hotel room and who wanted him to sleep in the bed with him last night.</p><p>He likes him a lot.</p><p>Ian turns his face back to the ceiling, closes his eyes, and sighs. What a weird fucking twenty-four hours.</p><p>---</p><p>At 9:10, Mickey’s phone alarm goes off, and Ian probably should’ve gotten up when he’d thought about it because Mickey’s first reaction is to jerk and dig in his elbows, sleepily murmuring, “<i>Whathefuck</i>?!” Elbow, elbow, elbow. Kick!</p><p>“Ow, ow, ow!” Ian yells, rolling away. “Mickey, it’s me! Stop!”</p><p>And it’d be funny if Ian weren’t the one getting elbowed and kicked within an inch of his life.</p><p>“Fuck, man!” Mickey complains, voice sleep-scratchy and deep. He quickly scoots away toward the other end of the bed, and Ian holds back a smile when he notices the blush dusting his cheeks. “Scared the shit outta me.” </p><p>“<i>That</i> scared you? Mr. MICK-MILK-All-Caps-Isn’t-Afraid-of-Anything?”</p><p>“Shut the fuck up.” Mickey takes his phone off the nightstand and stops the alarm.</p><p>Ian chuckles, suddenly in a weirdly good mood. He rolls out of bed and makes a grab for his boxers on the floor. </p><p>“Morning,” he says, pulling them on.</p><p>“You suck.”</p><p>Ian eyes him blearily for a second and goes to the bathroom.</p><p>When he returns from peeing and washing his face, he grabs his clothes from where he’d stacked them on the shelf under the TV, unfolds them, and makes some attempt at shaking the wrinkles out.</p><p>Over on the bed, Mickey’s rubbing his eyes and yawning, playing around on his phone.</p><p>Ian pulls on his jeans but leaves them undone and then turns to grab his shirt. Yawning himself, he shoves his head through the neck hole and then, before even getting his arms in the sleeves, he wanders over toward the mirror beside the bathroom door to grab his boots, which he’d kicked off there the night before.</p><p>He stands in front of the mirror as he puts his shirt on all the way, and as he’s about to bend down to pick up his shoes, he spies Mickey in the reflection.</p><p>He’s still lounging in bed, but rather than staring down at his phone like he’d been doing last time Ian looked at him, he’s sneaking very obvious glances his way. </p><p>And then he smiles.</p><p>Curious, Ian turns, giving Mickey a look. “What?” he asks, finding that Mickey hasn’t even bothered to wipe the expression off his face. </p><p>“Nothing,” Mickey says, shrugging, and Ian takes great pleasure in the fact that his cheeks then flush up sweetly.</p><p>Ian rolls his eyes and turns back, grabbing his shoes.</p><p>“Your hair just looks dumb.”</p><p>Without looking at him, Ian holds out his arm, middle finger raised. He gives himself a quick glance in the mirror.</p><p>And okay. Fine. His hair’s kinda all over the place, sticking up a bit like a hedgehog. Whatever. He needs a haircut.</p><p>“Shut up,” he grumbles, running his hands over it but doing nothing to stop it from sticking up. It was the way he slept. Maybe his position in bed when Mickey was riding him. Fuck.</p><p>Oh well. He’ll have to wet it in the shower later.</p><p>Ian walks over toward the couch, shoes in hand, meaning to shove over Mickey’s suitcase enough to sit down so he can pull on his boots, when he hears a quiet thump.</p><p>He turns around to find Mickey coming quickly toward him, a determined look on his face. His brows are pulled low, and his bottom lip is caught between his teeth.</p><p>In the bright light coming in from the windows, Mickey’s chest looks ultra pale, and the soft fuzz of barely-there chest hair is a bit more noticeable than it is in the dim evenings, just a thin, light brown coating across his upper chest and a little around his lower belly.</p><p>Ian pauses and sets down his boots on the edge of the couch cushion near the ukulele.</p><p><i>What’s up?</i> he wants to ask, but he doesn’t get a chance. </p><p>Mickey walks right up to him, takes Ian’s still-opened pants by either side, and tugs them, along with his boxers, down to his thighs.</p><p>And Ian’s got his mouth open again, about to reattempt asking the question, when Mickey sinks to his knees and takes Ian’s dick in his mouth.</p><p>Oh fuck.</p><p>Ian closes his eyes and blows out a breath, heart hammering fast, fast. He opens them and looks down.</p><p>Mickey holds Ian gently by the backs of his thighs and sucks him, not taking him too deep, mostly giving him soft licks and drags of his mouth that make Ian bite his lip when he considers what’s happening. </p><p>Shit.</p><p>Oh no oh no oh no, but really--</p><p>Oh yes oh yes oh yes.</p><p>“Oh God.”</p><p>Ian can’t decide whether or not it feels like Mickey’s ever done this before. Maybe he’s just nervous. Maybe-- Maybe-- Maybe lots of things.</p><p>Oh well.</p><p>Oh God.</p><p>Oh yes oh yes oh yes.</p><p>Ian closes his eyes, tilts his face to the ceiling, and groans.</p><p>Says, “Holy fucking shit, Mickey,” and comes in his mouth with a little huff of breath.</p><p>Mickey coughs, and when he pulls back, he swallows and wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand.</p><p>Ian lasted less than two minutes, and it’s a little mortifying, but in all fairness, Mickey Milkovich just got on his knees for him. Ian doesn’t think anybody could blame him for his reaction.</p><p>He pants and looks down at Mickey, who’s still there, still gripping the back of his right thigh with his hand.</p><p>“Sorry,” Ian apologizes, brain coming back online just enough to realize that he just unexpectedly came in Mickey’s mouth. </p><p>“Shoulda warned you, but I sorta didn’t know I was gonna... Um.”</p><p>Mickey stares at him curiously. </p><p>And in a move that Ian has to think over and over and over for the next few days, trying to convince himself it actually happened, Mickey slides his hand up the side of Ian’s thigh to his hip, pushes his shirt up his belly, and, stretching upward, presses a soft, chaste kiss to the skin just above his navel.</p><p>To Ian’s dumb look, Mickey simply stands, turns around, and walks off toward the bathroom.</p><p>Holy fuck. Holy fuck holy fuck holy fuck.</p><p>Ian can’t do anything but gape, really. </p><p>Well, that and ask questions in the most embarrassing way possible.</p><p>“Um,” he calls, watching Mickey breach the bathroom doorway. “Do you want me to blow <i>you</i>?”</p><p>There’s a brief pause before Mickey leans back out the door. “Nah, I’m good,” he says, and in the split second before he disappears again, Ian swears he sees the beginnings of a smile.</p><p>---</p><p>Ian leaves about ten minutes later, once he’s dressed and has checked the bus schedule on his phone.</p><p>The goodbye is as uninteresting as the ones before--a mutual <i>See ya</i>, a <i>thanks</i>, and Ian telling Mickey to DM him if he wants to do it again. This time, however, Ian walks to the bus station allowing himself to freely smile in a way he didn’t before.</p><p>And y’know, whatever. It’s still uncomplicated. </p><p>It’s fun, and their bodies go well together, and the sex feels good. That’s all it is.</p><p>But Mickey’s sweet, and Ian’s decided he likes him now, even if he is a bit of an asshole. He’s okay with him being an asshole as long as he isn’t mean spirited, and Ian doesn’t think he is.</p><p>He thinks Mickey’s probably pretty great under his armor, under his thick skin. He thinks Mo was right about him when she’d said, <i>He’s a good person, you know, even if he’s difficult to manage sometimes.</i></p><p>Mickey’s grumpy, and he’s so private Ian couldn’t even fill one hand with facts about his life away from his work. He knows basically nothing about him.</p><p>But he <i>likes</i> him.</p><p>And when he reaches the bus station, the girl at the ticket desk asks, “Are you Ian?” and says a man called and told her to look for a redhead in a gray shirt. </p><p>He’d bought his ticket home.</p><p>After boarding the bus twenty minutes later, Ian DMs him.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian Gallagher:</b> Asshole</p><p><b>Ian Gallagher:</b> Thank you</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Mickey doesn’t reply.</p><p>But when Ian gets home, throws some PopTarts in the toaster, and scrolls around on Twitter in order to avoid telling Fiona where he’s been all night, he finds Mickey’s tweeted something that makes his heart pound.</p><p>
  <i>thackery binx is a cool-ass name. maybe i’ll get a cat.</i>
</p><p>He’d tweeted it nearly an hour earlier--probably while waiting to board his plane--and the post already has seven thousand likes and over five-hundred replies.</p><p>Ian likes the tweet and then, biting his lip, wonders.</p><p>Should he do it?</p><p>Not that Mickey’s ever going to see it, as it’s sure to get buried immediately. But well, maybe that’s exactly why he <i>should</i> do it.</p><p>If Mickey sees it, it’s fate.</p><p>After grabbing his PopTarts and laying them out on a paper towel to cool, Ian leans over the kitchen counter, holds his phone in both hands, and types</p><p><i>Maybe you should get a stuffed animal and name it that. I hear that’s a pretty cool name for a beloved childhood toy.</i> 😎</p><p>Ian checks his watch. 1:31.</p><p>Mickey’s definitely on the plane to LA right now. Maybe he’s asleep. Maybe he’s got his phone off. </p><p>Ian closes out of all social media apps and shoves his phone in his pocket.</p><p>Maybe Mickey’ll see the tweet; maybe he won’t.</p><p>Maybe it’ll make a difference; maybe it won’t.</p><p>Maybe Ian and Mickey will become friends in addition to whatever it is they’re doing; maybe they won’t.</p><p>Whatever happens is fine. Ian’s cool with it.</p><p>Really, he is.</p><p>He eats his PopTarts and then heads upstairs to take a shower.</p><p>He puts on fresh clothes.</p><p>He goes downstairs and watches Liam play PS5.</p><p>He enjoys his lazy day at home.</p><p>And that night, while he’s in bed, he’s thinking, <i>Maybe he will; maybe he won’t. Maybe we will; maybe we won’t.</i> while checking his social media accounts.</p><p>He doesn't know much, really, and he thinks that might be okay. </p><p>That might be the best thing, the not knowing. When you know it all, you have nowhere to go.</p><p>Mickey’s posted an Instagram story of palm trees and sunshine. <i>beautiful day. i hate it.</i> he’s typed in tiny black font against the sky.</p><p>Ian guesses he didn’t see his tweet. Or if he did, he didn’t pick up on the hint. Maybe he picked up on it but didn’t want to respond in any way. Maybe he knows but doesn’t want Ian to know he knows.</p><p>Maybe all sorts of things.</p><p>Ian doesn’t know a lot with regards to what’s going on with Mickey or what’s going on with the two of them together. It’s one <i>maybe</i> after another. Hundreds of <i>maybe</i>s. Thousands.</p><p>But it’s okay, and it’s the best thing for now.</p><p>And really, when you throw it in a pot and boil it down, break it down, it becomes just this: </p><p>Not knowing means you’ve got a lot to learn.</p><p>And learning? </p><p>Learning’s where the fun begins.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Some fun facts about Chapter 3:<br/>-Before I get to the facts, check out this art by Steorie depicting a bit of the hotel scene from Chapter 2. Stephi, you are amazing. Thank you!<br/>    <a href="https://steorie.tumblr.com/post/636689535034589184/shit-sorry-sorry-youre-justso-hot-scene">Click!</a> -- <b>slightly NSFW but it doesn't really show anything super graphic</b></p><p>-And check out this incredible manip depicting Ian and Mickey posing with the SneakAttack/Monster stuff from Chapter 2. So great! &lt;333<br/>    <a href="https://figallagher.tumblr.com/post/637182614387752960/gallavich-manip-of-cooperative-gameplay-chapter-2">Click!</a></p><p>-Title comes from TV On the Radio's "Wolf Like Me," which is one of my favorite songs of all time. If you haven't noticed already, all the chapter titles come from lyrics of songs mentioned in the fic.</p><p>-Mickey's <a href="https://www.paulsmith.com/us/men-s-black-oversized-numbers-print-t-shirt">shirt with the numbers</a> is Paul Smith, and yes, Mickey did, in fact, cut the sleeves off of a $200 T-shirt. His <a href="https://www.paulsmith.com/us/men-s-dark-navy-mountain-scene-embroidered-sweatshirt">sweatshirt from Halloween</a> is also Paul Smith and actually costs less than the T-shirt.</p><p>-Mickey only wears his print button-downs as a rule when he's working.</p><p>-During the charity stream, when Mickey makes a face like he's forgotten something and cuts his camera, he realizes he forgot to put on his new FUCK U-UP merch beanie, which he wants to show off.</p><p>-I love <a href="https://stevenrhodes.threadless.com/">Steven Rhodes</a> and may or may not jointly own with my boyfriend upwards of ten shirts with his designs. The reason Ian is able to mention him by name when he's thinking about Mickey later on is because he totally went home and googled Mickey's T-shirt. Same with Keith Haring.</p><p>-<a href="https://www.saintkatearts.com/">Saint Kate Arts Hotel</a> in Milwaukee does actually provide a ukulele, record player, books, and drawing paper in its rooms for guests to use.</p><p>-Click <a href="https://gallavichy.tumblr.com/post/634892463411200000/click-here-to-view-the-cooperative">here</a> for the fic playlist, which will be updated for each chapter.</p><p> </p><p>Thanks so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed! ♥️</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. The Boy's Bad News</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Ian doesn’t know what’s going on with Mickey. He doesn’t know if it’ll progress to anything <i>more</i> or if it’ll remain this odd semblance of a friends-with-benefits situation. But it’s keeping his life interesting for the time being, and he’s going to run with it with every ounce of optimism he can muster.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><b>Content Warnings:</b> some light (?) angst; also a lot of sex in this one, so skip around if it’s not your thing</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Ian laughs when he thinks about the reality in which he’s managed to find himself. </p><p>He’s a poor, nineteen-year-old bipolar high school dropout working twelve-hour shifts at a diner with very few prospects and even less ambition, wasting his life away bussing tables, playing video games, and watching YouTube videos while also having secret, occasional sex with a celebrity multi-millionaire.</p><p>If someone had told him a year ago that he’d be living this sort of life, Ian would’ve been all-in up 'til the end, at which point he’d have grumbled, “Yeah fuckin’ right” and picked up his tub of dirty dishes to take to the back.</p><p>It’s ridiculous to consider the fact that he’s been inside MICK MILK five times. It’s even more ridiculous to consider the fact that MICK MILK has sucked his dick and kissed his belly with no expectation of reciprocation. It’s goddamn absurd to consider the fact that it apparently becomes a <i>thing</i>.</p><p>After the Halloween sleepover, Ian, as before, assumes they’ll do it again. The promise hadn’t been verbal, hadn’t been written, but there was zero indication that when Ian left the hotel that morning it would be his last time seeing Mickey. In fact, the blowjob, the belly kiss, and the paid return ticket said the exact opposite, and even if Mickey read but never replied to his thank you DM, and even if Mickey either didn’t see or decided not to acknowledge his not-so-subtle tweet, Ian’s still pretty sure they have something going.</p><p>He thinks Mickey’s probably really into his dick, and that’s just about the best way to instill some confidence in a guy who sorely needs it in at least one area. </p><p>Ian doesn’t know much about his ambitions, his hopes, or his future. He’s starting to develop some interests, and he’s learning how to find those pockets of happiness in his otherwise lackluster life. But certain things about his current existence--his job, his schedule, his complete lack of non-familial social relationships--just aren’t cutting it anymore. </p><p>It’s nice to know he’s got something to hang his hat on, even if it is just that he has a mutually-pleasurable, exciting sexual relationship with an interesting person.</p><p>An interesting person that he <i>doesn’t</i> actually hate and might like a little in the way a person likes a puzzle they’re trying desperately to solve. </p><p>It’s not enough forever, but he’ll take it for now. It gives him something to think about when he’s bored at work, and it keeps him from feeling like a massive loser in moments when he thinks he normally would--when Debbie talks about her boyfriend, when Fiona brings a new guy home, when Carl counts his cash at the kitchen table and the next day has a girl-filled hot-tub installed in the backyard. </p><p>He doesn’t know what’s going on with Mickey. He doesn’t know if it’ll progress to anything <i>more</i> or if it’ll remain this odd semblance of a friends-with-benefits situation. But it’s keeping his life interesting for the time being, and he’s going to run with it with every ounce of optimism he can muster. </p><p>So expect more sex with Mickey? Absolutely. But Ian finds himself surprised at just how frequent their meet-ups are apparently going to be. He probably shouldn’t be surprised, as when you’re a 21-year-old multi-millionaire with a primary job that consists of simply posting gaming sessions and doing four-hour live streams twice per week, you’ve probably got a lot of time, drive, and opportunity to travel as much as you want. </p><p>It also certainly helps that MICK MILK’s currently in high-demand, gaming companies willing to sell their souls to collaborate with him. He’s in Chicago a lot because Chicago is the home of SneakAttack, and it’s only two hours away from the home of MynaBird, and both companies are pretty much up his ass.</p><p>With good reason, sure. It <i>is</i> a pretty great ass.</p><p>Ian can’t get over how he’s able to say that with complete confidence born of personal experience.</p><p>---</p><p>The second week in November, just eleven days after the Halloween sleepover, Ian wakes for work at 5:30 to a series of Instagram DMs sent at three in the morning.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>MICK MILK:</b> yo, i’m in town this weekend, do you wanna get together?</p><p><b>MICK MILK:</b> saturday</p><p><b>MICK MILK:</b> same place</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Shit.</p><p>Ian swipes his fist over his crusty eyes and yawns, feeling like he’s still asleep. He taps Mickey’s name and checks his profile for the first time in a few days.</p><p>In his most recent post, he’s sitting on a hardwood floor somewhere, his back against a pink wall covered in vinyl records and his legs pulled to his chest. He’s wearing a <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/2acaca41d5ac50443eb331d34f437422/85ed4be1ca249f2e-b5/s1280x1920/6109a6a09d99f2661d62432942f8c9f12a2df85f.jpg">gray and black cheetah-print shirt</a> and black skinnies tucked into <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/f969535e3d71644304d2e8c66d150a12/5610312b51776145-89/s640x960/6b2a5b1b59dd9fe7705db1fefc7aed6313276449.jpg">Vans high-tops</a>, and he’s got his forearms resting on his knees, both middle fingers outstretched.</p><p>It’s simply captioned with two middle-finger emojis, and Ian can’t help but smile at it. </p><p>Hot motherfucker.</p><p>He opens back up his DMs. Takes a deep, slow breath in, then out.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian Gallagher:</b> Yeah, sure</p><p><b>Ian Gallagher:</b> Got an event?</p><p>------------------------</p><p>He tries not to come across as overly-enthusiastic. And well, he shouldn’t be, probably. It’s sex and maybe room service with awkward conversation scattered throughout, and just because Ian likes him a little doesn’t mean their encounter’s anything to freak out about. </p><p>Calm, cool, collected.</p><p>Ian sets his phone on the bed and gets up to dedicate the next twelve hours of his life to clearing tables.</p><p>---</p><p>At work, he checks his phone occasionally and notices that Mickey reads Ian’s messages at a little after eleven. It isn’t until an hour before the end of Ian’s shift that he replies.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>MICK MILK:</b> just a thing</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Lovely. </p><p>Ian scratches at his furrowed brow with his thumbnail before placing his phone back in his pocket. He picks up the bottle of cleaning solution and sprays down the table before him, and it’s just as he’s getting his rag to clean the surface that he feels his phone vibrate with another alert.</p><p>He wipes his wet hands on the front of his apron and reaches back into his pocket.</p><p>Mickey’s sent him <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/328b24f623a7b4779f5c69a6a5ebde14/55ecd294ca70ae31-5b/s500x750/cac7913dbc69fb115616c24174d1d66cf7cb1e36.jpg">a screenshot</a> of the information at the top of their DM thread. <i>You don’t follow each other on Instagram</i> is circled.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>MICK MILK:</b> wtf</p><p><b>Ian Gallagher:</b> You know what you gotta do</p><p><b>MICK MILK:</b> thought the bj i gave you would do the trick</p><p><b>Ian Gallagher:</b> Oh, so that’s what that was</p><p><b>Ian Gallagher:</b> I assumed it was because you can’t get enough of my dick 😎</p><p><b>MICK MILK:</b> you wish</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Ian smirks down at his phone. He looks around, making sure nobody’s watching him completely neglect his work duties, and replies.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian Gallagher:</b> Don’t have to</p><p><b>Ian Gallagher:</b> It is a great dick so I don’t blame you</p><p><b>MICK MILK:</b> stfu</p><p><b>Ian Gallagher:</b> See you Saturday 😏</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Ian’s message is marked as <i>Seen</i> immediately, but Mickey never replies. </p><p>Whatever. Ian puts his phone back in his pocket and finishes out his shift with a smile on his face.</p><p>---<br/>
---</p><p>They meet at six on Saturday--earlier than ever. Mickey’s got a junior suite this time, the furniture identical to that in the corner room but divided between a bedroom area with a king bed and desk and a separate living room with a couch, coffee table, chair, and wall-mounted flat <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/41002de6b65369a1a397d908d3b8030a/92db33bfa90e3790-cc/s1280x1920/a51fa4dfacd92c805ff5f81f3498cf94cd5dabb9.jpg">screen</a>. </p><p>When Mickey’d opened the door, Ian had breathed out a small, quiet sigh at his completely casual, comfortable wear. He had on a black long-sleeved <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/0db308d9b5ba34844c6af61512f4895e/c1315a8609a86374-18/s540x810/3f80ac70b9650fb4890abd931630e88ed63d9b59.jpg">Motörhead shirt</a> with Neighbörhood written on the sleeves, and it hung slightly baggy--like it was a size too big--over a pair of deep gray skinny sweats. He was barefoot, and his earrings were out like he was ready for bed before dinner.</p><p>They hadn’t said much, just a casual <i>hey</i> and <i>‘sup?</i> as Ian entered, and now Ian’s leaning against the partition separating the bedroom and living room with his arms crossed over his chest.</p><p>There’s a distinct orange chicken smell, and Ian turns toward the seating area and sees Mickey’s got delivery Chinese spread out over the coffee table.</p><p>“Got food,” Mickey murmurs, nodding toward Ian’s discovery. “Don’t know if you like Chinese, but the place down the street’s kinda good, so.”</p><p>Ian raises his eyebrows, shoves away from the partition, and makes his way over to drop down on the couch. “Feed me all you want,” he says, tone of voice exaggeratedly bored, “but you’re not gettin’ a follow.”</p><p>Mickey moves behind him into the living room area, pushes the yellow chair closer to the coffee table, and has a seat. “Shut the fuck up and gimme the General Tso’s box.”</p><p>Having fucked five times doesn’t necessarily make their meal any less awkward or the conversation any less surface-level, but Ian doesn’t care as much. Mickey puts the TV on Cartoon Network, and they idly watch <i>Bob’s Burgers</i> as they stuff their faces. </p><p>“So what was your <i>thing</i>?” Ian asks, stabbing a piece of orange chicken with his fork.</p><p>Mickey takes a long moment to chew, swallow, and take an inelegant slurp of whatever dark-colored pop he has in his styrofoam cup. </p><p>He’d gotten Ian a Dr. Pepper, and he brings his own straw to his lips and drinks while he waits for Mickey to answer.</p><p>“Mmm,” Mickey finally hums after taking the longest time to think about it. Shrugs. “Secret thing.”</p><p>Ian wants to roll his eyes, but he refrains. “Got it.”</p><p>“I dunno. Just can’t really tell people.”</p><p>“‘kay.” </p><p>Mickey watches Ian for a second, expression loaded as if his brain’s running a mile a minute, and then, with another tiny shrug as if to himself, blanks out and scoops up some fried rice.</p><p>It’s hard coming up with things to talk about. Mickey clearly can’t or doesn’t want to share anything about his life, and Ian feels dumb volunteering random information about his own life as if it’s anything remotely interesting.</p><p>He tells Mickey about Carl because it’s something.</p><p>“He’s got like, thousands of dollars,” he says after explaining his juvie and “White Chocolate” situation, mouth half-full of chicken.</p><p>“He dealin’?” Mickey looks completely unimpressed and unsurprised, and Ian doesn’t know whether he finds that comforting or strange.</p><p>He shrugs. “Yeah. Probably gonna get fuckin’ shot one’a these days.”</p><p>Mickey sniffs, picks up the General Tso’s box, and scoops out the last saucy, meaty bits from the bottom. He gets a little in the corner of his mouth, and after chewing and swallowing, wiggles his tongue there to get it off in a way that’s cute as shit and makes Ian have to look away to stop a smile.</p><p>“Where d’ya live exactly?” Mickey asks once done, folding closed the take-out box and setting it on the coffee table. He picks up his drink cup and sits back in his chair, pulling one leg up to drape over the armrest and giving Ian an inadvertent view of his crotch.</p><p>“Back of the Yards.”</p><p>For a moment, Mickey wanders his eyes past Ian’s head toward the windows behind him, then nods once, slow. He moves his mouth experimentally, like he’s trying to figure out how to speak, before cutting his eyes back to Ian’s face and saying, “He know what he’s doin’? That shit’s serious.”</p><p>“It’s… Carl. Who knows.” Ian takes a drink of his Dr. Pepper and shrugs. “You’d have to know him. He’s a different kinda kid. We used to think he was gonna be a serial killer, so I guess this is a step up.”</p><p>Mickey doesn’t say anything in response, but the corner of his mouth pulls back and up, and Ian wants to make that happen again and again.</p><p>“Thanks for the food,” Ian says, leaning heavily against the couch back and patting his stomach. “Don’t know what I did to deserve winin’ and dinin’ first.” He pauses for comedic effect. “My dick’s just that good, huh?”</p><p>Mickey rolls his eyes but is clearly fighting a smile, his cheeks twitching. Ian grins at him fully.</p><p>“You’re a dumbass,” Mickey says in a quiet, grumpy voice, scooting his chair back so he can get a better view of the TV. “Dick’s average.”</p><p>Ian snorts at that and twists around to sit horizontally on the couch, pulling his legs up to stretch out across the cushions. “We don’t <i>have</i> to fuck every time you’re in Chicago. Y’know. If my dick’s so average.”</p><p>Mickey flips him off and, self-satisfied, Ian smiles and watches the rest of the <i>Bob’s Burgers</i> episode.</p><p>---</p><p>After the food’s settled in their bellies and Ian’s sneakily taken his meds in the bathroom, they fuck on the floor, Mickey’s elbows on the seat of the yellow chair and Ian on his knees behind him. </p><p>Mickey’d been getting the condom and lube out of his overnight bag when Ian had left the bathroom, and from there, as if they were aiming for gracelessness, they just sort of headed back into the living area, got naked from the waist down, and shoved at each other until they found themselves in their current position.</p><p>The faux-bearskin rug is thin, the hardwood beneath killing Ian’s knees, but he keeps at it as much as he can, using his hands to hold the other man’s thighs apart, spreading him open a bit as he moves his hips in hard pushes that make Mickey gaspy.</p><p>He hates that Mickey’s wearing his shirt. Ian pauses and pushes it up around his armpits so he can hook his arms around his chest and belly, feeling his warmth as he starts back up. He mouths at Mickey’s upper back through his T-shirt and runs his fingers across as much soft skin as he can, getting a hand to his nipples and rubbing them until they’re tiny and hard and Mickey’s making a panting sound like he’s having trouble getting enough oxygen.</p><p>Fuck, this is the best thing. The best fucking thing. Ian touches his forehead to the back of Mickey’s bowed neck and smells the subtle spicy, herbal scent of what was probably morning-applied cologne. He grips his hips, dragging them back to meet his own, starting up a rocking motion that creates a slapping sound over the murmur of <i>American Dad!</i> and that gets Mickey going <i>uh, uh, uh</i> with every thrust.</p><p>“<i>Shit</i>, Mickey,” Ian pushes out, skin hot beneath his T-shirt. He stops his movements, leans back, and gets it off, throwing it aimlessly and needlessly dramatically past the partition and into the bedroom.</p><p>With a grimace, he pulls out for a moment and sits down on his ass. His knees are red with indentions from the gaps in the floor planks.</p><p>“What the fuck, man?” Mickey asks, voice breathy and desperate as he turns to look at him.</p><p>Ian stretches out his legs and leans in again, squeezing Mickey around the middle and pulling him backward.</p><p>With a bit of awkward maneuvering and not a little bit of Ian complaining about his knees, Mickey huffs and relents to sliding back down on his dick reverse cowboy style.</p><p>“Gonna tear up <i>my</i> fuckin’ knees now,” Mickey murmurs, and Ian just smiles at his back and grips him around the waist.</p><p>It’s just about the hottest thing he’s ever seen, Mickey riding him like this--second only to when he can see his face as he does it. Ian uses his hands to spread him open a little and pants like a goddamned marathon runner as he watches his lubey, condom-covered dick disappear and reappear.</p><p>“Yeah,” he whispers. “Fuck.”</p><p>Ian’s fingers leave red marks on Mickey’s pale ass, and he squeezes further just because, just to see, just because it’s hot. Mickey puts his hands on Ian’s thighs right above his knees and uses them as leverage. Ian squeezes his eyes shut and blows out a series of slightly-voiced breaths at the sting of Mickey’s nails digging in, at the thought that he’ll have half-moon indentations, maybe marks, maybe bruises.</p><p>He wiggles and gets his knees up. Places his feet flat to the floor, slides his hands from Mickey’s ass to his hips, and fucks up into him as hard as he can--until the room is filled with nothing but pants and moans and Mickey is rubbing at Ian’s knees with sweaty palms. Over and over, back and forth like he’s wild with it, before getting a hand down and jerking himself off.</p><p>“Holy shit,” Mickey gasps, and there’s something desperate in it that makes Ian feel his muscles start to kick as his orgasm approaches.</p><p>He slows his thrusts, slides his legs back flat, and drags his hands up and down Mickey’s soft sides as he moans and watches Mickey rock on him while jerking off.</p><p>All Ian can see is Mickey’s elbow as he strokes, but it’s insanely hot. He can <i>just</i> reach his hands around to touch at him a little, and he blows out breath after breath, fingers brushing across the edge of Mickey’s sweat-damp pubes as he watches that elbow and watches that elbow and watches that elbow and comes.</p><p>“Fuck, Mickey. Oh God.”</p><p>It feels so good he sees spots, and it’s made even better when Mickey rocks and rocks and then, with some sort of garbled sound, bends forward and shakes. Ian feels him climax around him, and he thinks he feels a bit of come hit his thigh as he watches Mickey’s elbow quicken, quicken, then slow to a stop.</p><p>He sighs, petting Mickey’s hips.</p><p>And then, in a move that does nothing but make Ian grin, Mickey leans backward so he’s sprawled gracelessly on top of him.</p><p>Ian allows it without a word for a minute, but eventually, he slides his arms around Mickey’s waist and hugs him to him, as awkward a position as it is. He feels his belly rise and fall with his breaths, and he smells his sweat through the fabric of his shirt.</p><p>Because he thinks he can get away with it, Ian presses a kiss to the bit of his head pushed uncomfortably against his face, and Mickey wiggles at it before sitting back up.</p><p>He climbs off Ian and uses the chair to pull his sex-wobbly self to his feet, and for a moment, he’s just standing there in a long-sleeved T-shirt and nothing on below, full on Donald Duckin’ it. That look’s not good on anybody--hot or not.</p><p>Ian lies there on the floor with his dick softening and gross condom half-off, body red and sweaty, and laughs. He feels drunk.</p><p>“Fuck’s wrong with you?” Mickey asks, Mr. Goddamned Grumpy. He snatches up his navy boxer briefs and pulls them on.</p><p>Ian calms his laugh but grins, bright. “You look like Winnie the Pooh.”</p><p>Clearly having no idea what Ian means by that, Mickey just stares at him, wide-<i>what the fuck?!</i>-eyed as if stunned. The expression on his face just makes Ian giggle.</p><p>“Uhhh,” Mickey gets out, adjusting his underwear on his hips with a snap of the band. “Fuck you?”</p><p>Ian pulls his hands up to his face and shakes with laughter. “All shirt, no bottoms,” he clarifies through it, dragging his fingers down his cheeks.</p><p>Finally getting it, Mickey rolls his eyes and flips him off with both hands. “Says the naked-ass dude on the floor with the floppy dick.”</p><p>Ian holds up his arm for Mickey to pull him up, but Mickey just kicks his foot, grabs his sweats off the floor, and carries them off to the bathroom, still looking like a cute little pantless cartoon character, his shirt long enough that Ian can barely see the bottom of his boxer briefs poking out beneath the fabric.</p><p>When the bathroom door closes, Ian smiles at the ceiling.</p><p>---</p><p>They watch another episode of <i>American Dad!</i>. Mickey had come out of the bathroom and gone straight for the snack tray, where various chips and candies with inappropriately expensive-for-what-they-are price stickers were spread out. He’d picked up the tray and carried it into the living room, setting it on the coffee table amongst the empty take-out boxes, and from there, Ian had just shrugged, finished pulling on his jeans, and snatched up a Kit-Kat.</p><p>They eat their way through the tray like only two young adults can. Mickey throws a balled-up Twix wrapper at Ian’s head, and Ian retaliates by throwing an M&amp;M at him.</p><p>“Wait, wait, wait,” he says with a little chuckle, taking another M&amp;M out of the package and holding it up. “Open your mouth.”</p><p>“Fuckin’ dork.”</p><p>“Do it.”</p><p>Mickey rolls his eyes and opens his mouth. It takes four tries for them to get it, but when they do, Ian pumps both fists in the air and shouts triumphantly, and even Mickey leans back in his chair and grins.</p><p>His teeth show with it, and it’s the sweetest thing Ian’s ever seen. His heart squeezes.</p><p>He tosses the M&amp;M package at him. “Now me.”</p><p>“This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever done,” Mickey complains, but he’s smiling a little, and he taps the edge of the bag against his palm, spilling a few candies into his hand. “Open up, buttercup.”</p><p>---</p><p>When the <i>American Dad!</i> episode is over, Ian checks his watch for what he realizes is the first time since he’s been there. 7:59.</p><p>He stands. Stretches. Wanders out of the living room and into the bedroom to grab up his shirt from where it’d landed when he’d whipped it across the room. He tugs it over his head and is just getting his arms in the sleeves when he spies Mickey leaning against the side of the partition, watching him.</p><p>His brows are pulled together like he’s thinking, and his top teeth are pressed against his bottom lip.</p><p>“Gonna go,” Ian says, as if it’s not obvious that that’s what he’s preparing to do. He tugs his shirt down, buckles his loose belt, and looks around for his sneakers.</p><p>Living room?</p><p>He wanders casually toward the partition, spotting them beneath the coffee table.</p><p>But just as he passes by Mickey, he suddenly feels a pair of tentative, nervously squeezing-unsqueezing fingers as his waist.</p><p>Mickey’s got him in a gentle hold. Ian spins to face him. “What’s up?”</p><p>Mickey watches him with the same curious expression he’d worn just after he’d swallowed Ian’s come the morning after their Halloween sleepover--like he doesn’t know what he’s doing or wants to do or thinks. It’s the expression he’d worn right before he’d kissed his belly.</p><p>Ian thinks Mickey wants to say something, but before he has a chance to prompt him, he’s being tugged across the room toward the bed.</p><p>His heart pounds.</p><p>Once there, Mickey twists him around and shoves him a little until Ian’s sitting down on the edge, then scooting back toward the middle. Mickey crawls on after him and, to Ian’s surprise, straddles him.</p><p>All the air leaves Ian’s body in a great huff. He gets his hands to Mickey’s waist, then drags them down to touch at his sweatpants-covered thighs. </p><p>“Not done fuckin’ you yet,” Mickey says, voice sharp in a way that sounds put-upon, like he’s trying to be harder, sexier, more confident than he feels.</p><p>Ian smiles. Shit. “Oh yeah?”</p><p>“Yeah.” Mickey studies him again--that funny expression firmly in place--and touches his hands to the front of Ian’s shirt. “That okay?”</p><p>“As long as you take your shirt off this time.” Ian pauses. Chuckles. “Not that into fuckin’ my way through the Hundred Acre Wood, if I’m honest.”</p><p>Mickey smacks his chest and sits back. “Changed my mind.”</p><p>“You have, huh?” Ian raises a teasing eyebrow at him. “Want me to leave?”</p><p>“Want you to shut up.”</p><p>“Sure, Mickey.” Ian grabs at the hem of his shirt and tugs it up, and with a resigned sigh, Mickey takes over and pulls it up and off himself.</p><p>Once topless, Mickey starts pushing up Ian’s shirt, and Ian does a sit-up with Mickey in his lap and then raises his arms so he can get it off him. He drops back down on the bed.</p><p>“<i>Mickey</i>,” Mickey comments.</p><p>Ian chews his bottom lip and looks up at the man sitting on him. “Is that fine, MICK-MILK-all-caps?”</p><p>Mickey scoffs. Shrugs. “Whatever.”</p><p>“I mean, that <i>is</i> your name, right?” Ian smirks. “Or should I call you Mikhailo?”</p><p>He pronounces it <i>Mikylo</i>, like the receptionist at the hotel in Milwaukee, and Mickey rolls his eyes. “Yeah, <i>definitely</i> don’t call me that.”</p><p>“Did I at least pronounce it right?”</p><p>“Nope. Now shut up and take off your pants.”</p><p>---</p><p>Ian stays the night.</p><p>They have sex twice more, Ian first wrestling Mickey out of the dominant position and getting him flat on his belly, fucking him into the mattress until he comes from his dick rubbing against the sheets--then later, over the couch again in a mirror of their second time at that hotel, the two of them having just watched <i>Pulp Fiction</i> on premium cable. They shove each other teasingly until they end up fucking in the dark living room, illuminated only by the scrolling movie credits and the city lights shining through in a way that makes Ian feel weirdly joyous and free.</p><p>They sleep together with the excuse that they’ll probably fuck again, but they don’t. This time, Mickey’s careful to keep to his side of the bed, and when Ian wakes, there’s no dark mop tucked under his armpit.</p><p>Ian rolls onto his side and watches Mickey sleep.</p><p>He’s got his arms curled against his chest in a way that’s endearingly sweet, and his hair sticks up in the front from his position on the pillow. His lips are slightly parted, and Ian sees the very edge of his front teeth.</p><p>After checking the time--8:29--Ian climbs out of bed. He uses the bathroom. Sees Mickey’s carefully zipped toiletry bag on the towel rack beneath the sink. He washes his face using the hotel’s complimentary soap, rubs his teeth with water and his finger--better than nothing--and dampens the top of his hedgehog hair so he doesn’t look completely crazy.</p><p>When Ian leaves the bathroom, he discovers Mickey’s allowed himself to starfish now that he has the space, and Ian watches his sprawled form as he gets dressed.</p><p>He sits on the edge of the bed to pull on his sneakers, and the jostle of it makes Mickey grumble and twist onto his back.</p><p>“Gonna go,” Ian says for the second time in a little over twelve hours. He yawns. Stretches. Stands. </p><p>Mickey just makes a series of sleepy, vaguely human, mostly creature sounds, and Ian can’t help but grin as he heads out.</p><p>---</p><p>After showering at home and avoiding questions, he goes in for his Sunday lunch and afternoon shift at eleven. </p><p>He clears tables, washes dishes, takes orders when the waitresses get harried, and collects far too few tips from it. But for the first time in a while, his shift passes quickly, his brain full of Mickey and sex and <i>Not done fuckin’ you yet.</i></p><p>Full of images of Mickey sleeping, his face soft, his hair a mess, his arms curled sweetly against his chest.</p><p>Fuck. Ian hangs his apron in his locker at the end of his shift and thinks he just might be in trouble.</p><p>---<br/>
---</p><p>Maybe it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, but the amount of MICK MILK Ian watches decreases significantly once the fucking seems to be a <i>thing</i>.</p><p>He still watches his uploads when the game looks particularly interesting, but seemingly gone are the days when he’d watch literally everything ever uploaded <i>just because</i>. Ian does try to tune in to most of his live streams, though, if only because they’re unedited and include plenty of Mickey talking to the chat. Laughing at things. Fidgeting.</p><p>Ian likes to watch him. He likes to think about him catching M&amp;Ms in his mouth and smiling.</p><p>Oh no oh no oh no.</p><p>---<br/>
---</p><p>A few days after their first encounter of the month, as he’s settling down on his bed after a jog, his muscles aching from the push, Ian’s phone chimes with an Instagram alert.</p><p>He checks it.</p><p>Strangely, Morgan Stoll--Mickey’s Mo--has followed him. </p><p>Something about that makes Ian’s heart pound. </p><p>Did she find out about them? Did Mickey <i>tell</i> her? Even so, why the hell’d she follow him on Instagram?</p><p>Sucking his bottom lip into his mouth, Ian taps over to <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/d2b553018b2404c4e6cbaf73b442cb6d/81f5c90260d61c97-1e/s1280x1920/51a7f333557c4786b4edf39b4d6670f504ad29fb.jpg">her profile</a> and sees it’s both private and that she only has 126 followers and follows 94 people.</p><p>What the hell. Ian sends her a follow request. If she can follow him, he can follow her.</p><p>She confirms it mere moments later, and Ian scoots back against the wall and settles in to check out her page.</p><p>Her pictures are mostly fairly standard <i>millennial woman enjoying life</i>. Pictures of her cat, pictures of açaí bowls--whatever the fuck those are, pictures of friends, flowers, landmarks from her international travels, and selfies with wine glasses. </p><p>There are a couple photos, however, that leave Ian pressing his fist to his lips because he’s lost his goddamned mind and is in a terrible fucking situation right now. Or just a really, really good one. The jury’s still out on how he feels about his relationship status.</p><p>There’s a photo of Mickey absolutely cheesing the fuck out of the camera, his grin so wide his eyes are crinkly in a way Ian only <i>sort of</i> saw after he’d landed the M&amp;M in his mouth.</p><p>It was posted nineteen weeks ago, and Mickey’s wearing a yellow, pink, and blue tie-dye tank top with his tortoise-shell Clubmasters clipped to the front. The bridge of his nose and his cheeks beneath his eyes are pink with sunburn, and his freckles are out to play, ultra-visible from sun exposure and cute as hell. His hair’s messy, like it’s been wet and then dried all poofy and tangled, and the photo location’s tagged as Santa Monica Pier.</p><p><i>Few things of note here, friends: 1) Mickey outside. 2) Mickey at the beach. 3) Mickey in tie-dye,</i> it’s captioned, and all Ian can think is <i>yes to all</i>.</p><p>Ian taps to view the comments and sees that Mickey’s responded, <i>get a good look, you ain’t ever seeing it again</i> 🖕</p><p>Shit. Why does Ian have to like him? He bites the insides of his cheeks to hold back a smile.</p><p>There’s another picture of Mickey in the most recent photo set, posted this morning. Mo apparently just had a birthday party, and in the middle of six pictures featuring various people drinking, dancing, and smiling in someone’s living room, there’s a picture of Mickey on a couch beside Mo. </p><p>He’s dressed in a Slipknot hoodie and ripped jeans, and there’s a pink polka-dot party hat on his head, complete with a gold pom-pom. He looks entirely unimpressed with whomever took the photo, and Ian can’t help but feel warm inside looking at him.</p><p>Ian likes the photo set and then taps to view her stories, which consist of quite literally thirty clips posted over the past 24 hours. The first batch are reshares of happy birthday stories from her friends, but following that are clips from her party the night before. </p><p>Most are boring, and Ian quickly taps through, but near the end he comes across a video he wishes he could save to his phone and watch over and over again.</p><p>Jessie J’s “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lzcKFXZDbmQ">Domino</a>” is playing loudly in the background, and most of Mo’s guests are singing and dancing to it, half of them looking three sheets to the wind. At one point, Mo, filming herself, walks over to Mickey, who’s sitting on the arm of the couch holding what looks like a G&amp;T and desperately shaking his head <i>no</i>.</p><p>“C’mon, Mickey-boy,” Mo encourages, grabbing his free hand and pulling him up. She sings the lyrics in a <i>sing with me!</i> tone of voice while Mickey makes grumpily embarrassed faces at the camera. Then, in response to his raised middle-finger, Mo puts her arm around him and rocks back and forth until he joins in and even starts to smile, that sweet, toothy grin creeping up, up, up until it meets his eyes.</p><p>He knocks back the rest of the G&amp;T, leans down to set the glass on something, and for the next ten seconds, Mo and Mickey swing in a circle, her arm around his shoulders and his arm around her waist, the two of them laughing with drunken glee while the song plays.</p><p>Ian watches it again and again and hates that he thinks it, fucking <i>hates</i> it, but can’t help but want in his head and his heart to make Mickey laugh like that one day.</p><p>---<br/>
---</p><p>The third week in November, Mickey adds something new to his live streams. He doesn’t say whether or not it’s a permanent feature, but following the “I Believe in a Thing Called Love” segment, Mickey nurses a beer in a merch mug and says, “I dunno. Let’s do somethin’ weird. Ask me questions. Don’t be fuckin’ pervs.”</p><p>Something about him looks extra hot tonight. He has on <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/9a14825dbce9cd71aaa7630ca12fc924/ddaf49a98f1d5f39-6c/s640x960/f06d8945e3f320567c7b335c5dcdb98bbec3bd04.jpg">a black lightning-bolt button-down with an unzipped burgundy bomber jacket overtop</a>, and he’s switched out his usual white headphones for a pair of wireless earbuds, exposing his ears and showing off his black earrings. He’s had his fade touched-up since Ian last saw him, and his hair on top is brushed more to the side rather than in its fluffy flop, giving him a distinct punk rocker look that makes Ian want to fuck him until he screams.</p><p>Oh no oh no oh no.</p><p>He swipes over to the chat.</p><p>It’s a lot to keep up with, as people are throwing out things from <i>where did u get ur shirt</i> to <i>will you marry me</i> 💍</p><p>Ian watches Mickey’s eyes as he squints to read.</p><p>“Umm. Welshie asks… What instruments do I play? I play guitar and drums. A little piano just ‘cause, but it’s borin’ as fuck.” He takes a drink of his beer. “MaryJane asked about my favorite non-horror video games. Hmmm.” Mickey taps his fingers over his lips, thinking. “I fuckin’ love both the <i>Red Dead</i>s. <i>God of War</i>. <i>Bioshock</i>.” He scrunches up his face. “Still think that one kinda counts as horror, though. I’d play it on my channel if it came out today.”</p><p>For the next five or so minutes, Mickey answers questions about games and music. He skips over anything having to do with his personal life and even gets on to the chat about being <i>invasive fuckin’ weirdos</i> when they ask him shit like <i>how big is your dick?</i> and <i>how old were you when you lost your virginity?</i></p><p>“One more question,” he says at the end, drumming his fingers against the table. </p><p>Ian bites his lip and watches Mickey, cute and squinty-eyed, read the chat. And well, whatever.</p><p><b>iang_twitch:</b> What’s your favorite color? 😎</p><p>He quickly swipes away from the chat and grins when he sees the moment Mickey spots it. His brows go up in little points for about two seconds, and he gives a quick eye-roll.</p><p>“<i>Ian</i> wants to know my favorite color.” Mickey takes a drink of his beer and swallows. “Black or gray. Or navy.” He shrugs and then, as if suddenly losing interest in the chat as a whole, starts messing around with his computer and PS5 controller. </p><p>“Alright,” he says. “Break time. Don’t know if I’ll be doin’ that again, but thanks for playin’, I guess.” He salutes the camera--two fingers to his brow--and then cuts the feed, a ten-minute countdown beginning and “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1SLeQIcQeEk">I Want You So Hard</a>” by Eagles of Death Metal starting up.</p><p>Ian waits around throughout the break, sort of expecting Mickey to DM him, if only because he did last time he noticed him in the chat. </p><p>A DM never comes. </p><p>Whatever. Ian goes down to the kitchen to make himself a PB&amp;J.</p><p>---</p><p>Though Mickey never mentioned Ian’s not-so-subtle tweet in person or online, Ian learns that week that he very clearly saw it.</p><p><i>for the record: when it’s done right, pineapple on pizza is dope, fuck everybody who says otherwise.</i> 🤘 Mickey tweets, starting up a shitstorm of people trying to playfully argue with him in his mentions and even making memes about it.</p><p>Rather than reply to anyone, he tweets again, <i>i will not be accepting questions and your opinions are not valid.</i></p><p>Smirking, Ian replies to the second one, <i>You’re so brave</i>, and though he thought it’d get buried under a couple hundred replies, Mickey likes it barely a minute after he sends it. It’s the only reply out of the combined seven-hundred that he likes.</p><p>The next day, Mickey tweets, <i>la traffic is the fuckin worst. give me song suggestions. nothing shitty, i don’t trust most of you motherfuckers.</i></p><p>Ian’s at work, but he manages to reply, <i>Party in the USA - Miley Cyrus</i> 😎 between tables, grinning to himself when he imagines Mickey reading it.</p><p>He doesn’t get to check his phone again until much later, but when he does, he sees Mickey’s replied, <i>no</i> 🖕 </p><p>Shit. </p><p>The thing is, even though Ian knows it’s a bad, bad, terrible, <i>awful</i> thing to develop a full-on crush on Mickey Milkovich--not MICK MILK--he can’t stop himself from doing shit that’s only going to make it worse. There are approximately ten million reasons why he should stop replying to him on Twitter and, as an offshoot of that, should stop allowing a simple like or reply to make him smile. But he can’t fucking help it.</p><p>He can’t help that he kind of <i>likes</i> Mickey in more than just a sex way. He can’t help that he keeps thinking about his face while he slept and the weight of his body on his thighs as he’d asked Ian if it was okay that he wasn’t done fucking him yet.</p><p>Fuck. Ian’s <i>attracted</i> to the guy.</p><p>And it certainly doesn’t help when he’s apparently got another flight into Chicago on Friday because he has a <i>thing</i> Saturday afternoon <i>and fyi next saturday too if you want</i>.</p><p>Oh no oh no oh no.</p><p>---<br/>
---</p><p>He arrives at the hotel at just after seven, but when he pulls out his phone to ask Mickey the room number, Ian sees he’d messaged him an hour earlier about being late.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>MICK MILK:</b> still waitin to get off the fuckin plane, prob won’t be there til 7:30 or 8</p><p><b>Ian Gallagher:</b> That’s cool</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Ian has a seat in one of the chairs by <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/804314da2e242aa9c94acaac85db6717/4b8d9c19aa92cf5d-86/s2048x3072/ff0cea59e1b85fcf095985b18d7991149bc3bc3f.jpg">the lobby fireplace</a> and wastes time on his phone.</p><p>After a while of this, he checks his messages and sees Mickey read his reply. He looks around, gets up and checks out some of the artwork adorning the walls. Sits back down. His stomach growls.</p><p>The hotel has an Italian seafood restaurant they’d ordered from on their second meeting.</p><p>Ian checks his watch. 7:43.</p><p>And why the fuck not. He pulls up his DMs and messages Mickey.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian Gallagher:</b> Do you want me to get us a table at the hotel restaurant for when you get here? 🍝🍤</p><p>------------------------</p><p>The message is marked <i>Seen</i> almost instantly, and Mickey replies just as fast.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>MICK MILK:</b> no</p><p><b>MICK MILK:</b> in a cab, be there soon</p><p>------------------------</p><p>He probably shouldn’t have asked. They’re just banging--it’s all it is--and Mickey may not be recognizable to most people over the age of thirty, but it’s doubtful he’d want to be seen in public with Ian like they were on a fucking date or something.</p><p>Still. </p><p>Even though he completely understands the situation, he feels a little embarrassed that he asked.</p><p>---</p><p>Ian’s questions about Mickey’s traveling posse or lack thereof are answered when he comes through the door at a little after eight. He’s alone, a fancy black duffle bag on his shoulder, dressed as inconspicuous as possible.</p><p>He’s got on a plain black beanie, an unpretentious army green coat, and dark wash jeans with ratty Converse. He looks like any other 21-year-old, his distinctive hairstyle covered by the hat and his earrings out.</p><p>Ian meets him at the reception desk, and Mickey nods at him but doesn’t say anything. In fact, he completely ignores him while he checks in, and when the receptionist walks away for a moment to retrieve something from the office, Mickey murmurs, “‘ey. You can go wait by the elevators or whatever.”</p><p>Ian’s stomach drops.</p><p>And okay, whatever. He knows exactly what this is. He gets Mickey’s life situation, and he knows that if anybody in the lobby recognizes him and spots him checking into a single king room with another man, it’d probably cause a stir. Fine.</p><p>It still makes Ian feel like shit. A lump grows in his throat as he nods and heads to the elevators to wait.</p><p>---</p><p>When Mickey arrives, he simply presses the up arrow to call the elevator and sniffs casually.</p><p>Ian has the distinct feeling they’re supposed to pretend they don’t know each other. He takes a deep breath, and the two of them head up to Mickey’s floor.</p><p>They don’t really talk until they’re in the room, and even then, the vibes are weird.</p><p>They take off their coats, and Ian watches as Mickey puts down his bag and pulls off his beanie. He looks exhausted and unhappy, a tightness in his face and a weariness in his eyes that’s unfamiliar.</p><p>“You alright?” Ian asks, and it’s the first thing he’s said to him out loud.</p><p>Mickey rubs his hands over his face and nods. “I’m good.”</p><p>He doesn’t sound like it. He sounds tired, and Ian feels a surge of discomfort. Should he go home? Leave him alone? Let him get some rest?</p><p>Mickey disappears into the bathroom for a few minutes, and when he comes back, he’s texting someone. He leans back against the wall outside the bathroom door while he types.</p><p>Ian sits down on the bed, and while he’d normally take this moment to remove his shoes, he leaves them on.</p><p>He wants to ask questions, but he doesn’t. Mickey texts away for the longest time as if Ian isn’t there, and when he’s done, he shoves his phone in his pocket and moves over to the thermostat by the bed to adjust the temperature.</p><p>“I can go,” Ian offers, watching Mickey’s pinched eyebrows as he turns up the heat. He stands. Fidgets awkwardly.</p><p>“Why the fuck would you do that?” Mickey asks, turning to Ian with a strange expression on his face.</p><p>“I dunno. Feels like you’re busy or tired or something.”</p><p>Mickey takes a deep breath. “Nah, man. I’m good.” He pauses for a second, then scoffs. Stares at Ian.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Get naked,” he says, and it’s weirdly toned--cold, almost. Impersonal.</p><p>Ian does it. He kicks off his shoes, pulls off his jeans and sweater, slides his boxers off his hips and toes off his socks.</p><p>It <i>is</i> a little chilly in the room. Ian’s nipples immediately harden, and he holds his arms across his belly to warm up some while Mickey strips down and gets the condom and lube from his duffle bag.</p><p>With no attempt at foreplay or fanfare, they climb onto the bed together and Ian fucks Mickey doggy-style. He grips him at the hips and moves in him hard and fast, and Mickey--on all-fours--drops his head between his shoulders and makes breathy little <i>ah</i> sounds throughout.</p><p>Toward the end, when his noises get more frequent, Ian slides a hand around and jerks him off, and Mickey comes with a groan and a series of tight, rhythmic squeezes around Ian’s cock.</p><p>“Fuck,” Ian whispers, lowering his head. He presses his mouth to Mickey’s back, dives into him once, twice, three times, and with a whine, comes in hard, satisfying pulses into the condom.</p><p>He collapses on Mickey’s back, and the two of them lie there for several minutes, catching their breath. Ian sighs and nuzzles his face in the back of Mickey’s warm neck, smelling sweat and that morning’s shampoo. </p><p>It takes a while, but Mickey does eventually start to wiggle. At that, Ian grabs the base of the condom, pulls out, and rolls off. He cleans up using the tissue box at the desk--a pro in this hotel now--and then returns to the bed to lie on his back beside Mickey as he smokes.</p><p>It’s a wonder he hasn’t been fined for smoking yet. Or maybe he has. Maybe he doesn’t care.</p><p>Ian tilts his head toward Mickey and finds he’s looking at him. He quickly turns back to the ceiling.</p><p>They’re quiet for several minutes. Ian breathes the sweetness of Mickey's cigarette, eyes closed, and is surprised when Mickey speaks.</p><p>“My day’s just been kinda shitty,” he says in answer to a question Ian’s wondered but not asked.</p><p>Ian opens his eyes. “Wanna talk about it?”</p><p>It’s a long shot. Ian isn’t at all surprised when Mickey snorts, rolls his eyes, and answers, mouth full of smoke, “No, I don’t wanna fuckin’ talk about it, Dr. Phil.”</p><p>Ian tilts his head back toward him. Studies his face. “Suit yourself. For the record, I’m a good listener.”</p><p>“Yeah, I don’t believe that shit for a second.”</p><p>“Why not?” The corners of Ian’s lips pull up in the beginnings of a smile.</p><p>“You talk too fuckin’ much. Can’t be two things at once.”</p><p>“I have a lot of really great things to say, Mickey.”</p><p>Mickey rolls over toward the nightstand and crushes out his cigarette in an empty water glass. Drops it in. When he rolls back, he pokes Ian just once in the side.</p><p>It’s enough to send Ian’s heart soaring. He grins--he can’t fuckin’ help it--and Mickey <i>chhh</i>s at him, climbs off the bed, and heads to the bathroom to clean up.</p><p>When he comes back, Ian watches as he picks his jeans up off the floor. And he assumes Mickey’s going to start getting dressed again, but he doesn’t. He simply takes his phone out of his pocket and returns to the bed, climbing back on and stretching out beside Ian.</p><p>Ian tries not to be nosy, tries his hardest not to sneak glances at Mickey’s phone, but he can’t stop himself. He turns his head just a little to the left and peeks.</p><p>He’s not <i>that</i> weird about it. He doesn’t stare hard enough that he can see details. But he watches as Mickey texts someone in iMessage, then scrolls up a bit and reads old messages before moving back down to the text box to send something else.</p><p>When he’s done, Mickey switches over to Instagram, and Ian is a little less sneaky about watching, this time.</p><p>“Stop staring at me,” Mickey says, and Ian laughs and gets up to grab his own phone.</p><p>And for the next ten minutes, the two of them just lie there together, naked as the day they were born, playing around on their phones. Mickey gets several texts, but he doesn’t answer most of them. Just reads each message from the banner and never even bothers to open it within iMessage.</p><p>Ian bites his lip. Considers.</p><p>He turns his head fully toward Mickey and asks, “Can I have your number?”</p><p>Mickey looks at him like he’s just asked his hand in marriage. “<i>Why</i>?”</p><p>“Um. Our sole method of communication is through Instagram DMs, and we don’t even follow each other.”</p><p>Mickey makes the <i>funniest</i> fucking face at him, this almost ridiculously exaggerated, <i>so fucking what?</i> face, and Ian can’t help but laugh.</p><p>“C’mon,” he says, pulling up the contacts on his phone. “Don’t worry, Mr. Celebrity. I swear I won’t give it out or text you about anything other than our hook-ups.”</p><p>“<i>Chh</i>.” Mickey looks perplexed for a moment, but then he rolls his eyes and asks, “What’s <i>your</i> number?”</p><p>Ian watches him begrudgingly pull up a blank text message and then type in the number Ian recites for him. A few seconds later, Ian receives a text.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Mickey (9:22 PM): </b> 🍆</p><p>------------------------</p><p>He smiles and saves his number to his contacts. </p><p>🤘 <b>Mickey</b> 🤘</p><p>---</p><p>“Hey,” Ian says a few minutes later as he scrolls his Twitter timeline. “You know my Twitter username, don’t you?”</p><p>Mickey scoffs. “Could recognize you fuckin’ anywhere from that dumbass emoji with the sunglasses.”</p><p>Ian huffs a breathy laugh. His heart pounds at the notion that Mickey <i>had</i> purposely liked and replied to his tweets because he knew it was him. He bites his lip.</p><p>“D’ya ever watch fancams of yourself?”</p><p>“Jesus Christ. Fuck no.”</p><p>“Bet ya do.”</p><p>“That shit’s a waste of time.”</p><p>“What about this one?” Ian scoots closer--not close enough that they’re touching, just close enough that Mickey can see his phone--and presses play on one that’s been making rounds for months, the view count up to almost 30k.</p><p>It’s another edit--like the one on YouTube--of Mickey’s decidedly unimpressed faces, the Wii theme song playing throughout.</p><p>It’s actually really fucking funny, the fan who created it having done a fantastic job of syncing the expressions with the tune, and before long, Ian finds himself chuckling as he watches. He tilts his brows toward Mickey. Bounces them.</p><p>And as if saying, <i>Okay, okay</i>, Mickey lets himself laugh quietly at it, his naked belly jumping. It’s small, but it’s something, and Ian’s heart soars.</p><p>Taking a chance, he reaches out a finger and pokes Mickey’s stomach. Mickey slaps his hand away, then pokes him back.</p><p>Before long, they’re smacking each other’s chests and stomachs, obnoxious and childish as hell. Ian sets his phone on the nightstand so he can go in with both hands, getting his fingers in the mix and digging them in for a little tickle.</p><p>Mickey slinks back after barely two seconds of it, dodges his attempts at more, and to Ian’s <i>fuck you</i>, grabs at his arms and leaps onto him with an <i>oof</i>.</p><p>Ian pinches at the bits of softness at his hips, and Mickey snatches his hands and pins them to either side of Ian’s body, pressing them firmly to the mattress.</p><p>His palms are warm and sweat-soft, and Ian has to fight to keep from curling his fingers in, filling the spaces in-between.</p><p>“Asshole,” Mickey says, and Ian wiggles like he’s trying to free himself.</p><p>He may be out of shape in comparison to how he used to be, but he could easily squirm out of Mickey’s grip if he wanted to. He doesn’t really want to.</p><p>Mostly, he wants to see what Mickey’s going to do now that he has him pinned.</p><p>He’s looking at Ian curiously, bottom lip pinched between his teeth and brows tense. He’s got the same look he’d had just before he’d kissed Ian’s belly. The same look he’d had before he’d grasped Ian’s hips and walked him toward the bed.</p><p>Ian holds his breath.</p><p>And he’s expecting something rough, Mickey’s eyes growing shiny and devilish, a little smirk tilting the corner of his lips. He’s expecting to be pinned down and ridden into the mattress, maybe, energy flowing from Mickey’s body into Ian’s in a hard, rough romp.</p><p>He’s not at all expecting what happens, and what happens is Mickey bends, slow as if afraid to scare off a deer, face pressing into Ian’s neck. </p><p>There’s a beat--a beat in which Ian’s stomach flips--then a quick peck of lips, like an experiment.</p><p>Mickey shifts, and Ian places his hand on his back, fingers stroking across his slick skin. Mickey opens his mouth then, goes all in, and Ian closes his eyes and sighs at the feel of hot, wet suctioning, Mickey sucking at his neck in a way that makes him squirm, makes him curl his toes.</p><p>Fuck.</p><p>Ian slides his hand up, up Mickey’s spine, up, up his neck to the back of his head, holding it there gently as he feels Mickey’s sucks turn hard, just shy of too intense--like he’s hell-bent on giving him a hickey.</p><p>Ian grips his hair then, feeling a sting, and with a release and a naughty little puff of laughter out his nose, Mickey drags his mouth around to Ian’s throat, kissing wetly down, down to his chest, where he proceeds to suck between his pecs and lick over his ribcage before settling in to apparently mark the fuck out of his belly.</p><p>Head propped up on the numerous bed pillows, Ian has the perfect view of Mickey as he sucks and kisses at him, tongue leaving wet stripes on his skin that shine in the overhead light, lips leaving pink ovals around his navel that Ian knows may turn to bruises. </p><p>It’s hot as hell, Mickey’s mouth opening and closing around Ian’s skin, tongue pressing hard against him, then soft, like he’s tasting. He bites him just below his navel, then suck-licks his way around his side, up, and back to the center.</p><p>Ian blows out a breath, belly like molten lava, blood rushing down, filling his cock, making him tingle behind the knees, sweat between his thighs. </p><p>Mickey peers up at him then, eyes blue and beautiful. He looks away quickly--to the side, back down to Ian’s torso--and slows. Easing up, nosing to the center of Ian’s stomach, he presses a soft kiss to the same spot he’d kissed after the Halloween sleepover blowjob, lips whispery, gentle like cotton.</p><p>Ian places his hands on the back of Mickey’s head, fingers touching at the little buzzed bits of his fade and the soft fluff of his hair, and sighs, heart hammering, thump-thump, when Mickey suddenly grasps his hips, moves down, and takes his cock in his mouth.</p><p>Holy shit. Fuck.</p><p>Ian closes his eyes and pets Mickey’s hair, breathing deeply through it.</p><p>It isn’t a perfect blowjob, Mickey not covering his teeth well each time and his stroke-suck game a little clumsy and unpracticed--<i>out</i> of practice? <i>maybe</i>?--but it’s perfect to Ian.</p><p>He grips his hair and pulls and lets him get his mouth and tongue all over him, sloppy and wet, his lips warm and tight around him in a way that makes him throb because he can’t believe it. He can’t fucking believe it.</p><p>It doesn’t take long for Ian to start to climb, his belly clenching and thighs beginning to tremble. “Okay, okay, stop-stop-stop,” he murmurs all in a rush, tugging at Mickey’s hair in order to try desperately to keep his body’s reaction at bay. </p><p>Mickey pulls off, swipes the drool off his chin, and sits up. His mouth is pink--more so than usual--and he’s got a tiny crinkle between his eyes.</p><p>He’s nervous. Unsure. Ian can’t take it. He sits up as well, puts his hands on Mickey’s shoulders, and pushes him so that he lies back horizontally across the bed.</p><p>He gets on him.</p><p>Mickey gasps and places his hands on Ian’s shoulders like he doesn’t know whether to hold him down, stop him, or encourage him to keep going. His fingers dig in, and Ian presses his nose to Mickey’s neck, waiting.</p><p>He breathes him.</p><p>Mickey smells like sweat and beer and something warm and sweet like a beloved blanket, and he can’t help but nuzzle him a little, just a brush of his nose against the side of his neck.</p><p>There’s a heavy exhale, like Mickey’s released a tightly-held breath. His fingers loosen. Relax into a touch, then a shoulder-caress.</p><p>Slowly, Ian tilts his face up. Presses his lips to Mickey’s neck. Just a brush.</p><p>“Marks okay?” he asks before dragging his lips to Mickey’s throat, then down to his collarbone. He opens his mouth slightly and gives an experimental suck.</p><p>Mickey sighs like he’s overwhelmed, and those touching fingers slide up the back of Ian’s neck. “Nowhere visible,” he says, his belly expanding with a deep breath. Ribs rising.</p><p>Okay.</p><p>Ian licks at him in all the visible areas of his neck and throat, lips careful not to suction, then moves down to drag his mouth over his chest. He gets his hands on Mickey’s belly and presses just slightly, fingers dimpling his skin, and then releases to rub at the soft plane with the underlying hardness of muscle.</p><p>Okay.</p><p>Mickey’s nipples are hard. Ian nudges his nose against the right, then drags his mouth up and plants it to the skin above. He sucks, kneading Mickey’s stomach, then his sides, sliding his hands up to touch at his curiously asymmetrical ribs. Mickey’s fingers move up into his hair as Ian sucks a hickey onto his skin, pulls back, and licks proudly over the pink mark.</p><p>Mickey looks like his brain’s about to go offline, eyes unfocused, lip captured between his teeth.</p><p>His cock is hard, and Ian slides a hand down to stroke over it as he continues his downward path to Mickey’s belly.</p><p>“Fuck,” Mickey breathes at the dual stimulation, eyes crossing cutely.</p><p>Ian kisses his soft stomach, runs his lips over his navel, and tongues at the skin just above the line of his pubic hair. His happy trail’s faint--will probably become more prominent with age--but it’s sweet. Ian kisses the fuzzy little hairs there before maneuvering himself between Mickey’s legs.</p><p>He pushes his thighs up, just a little, and looks toward his sweaty, red face. He’s got his eyes squeezed shut and his mouth open, and he’s panting hard, <i>hard</i>. He’s beautiful. Sexy as hell. Ian gets his mouth on his thighs and sucks at him. Bites at him. Licks the warm, furry crease of his groin, nudges his balls with his nose, before moving up so he can slide his mouth down over his dick.</p><p>Ian tastes a bit of come still in his slit from earlier--feels the warm, perfect weight of him against his tongue as he uses his mouth to pleasure him as best he can, hand getting in on the action and sliding slowly but steadily up and down the base of him. </p><p>He pulls off, licks across the head, tongue stroking back and forth in a way that makes Mickey whisper, “Oh, oh shit,” that makes his belly tense and a little drip of precome well up. Ian kisses it off before sliding his mouth back down.</p><p>He’s only at it another minute or so before Mickey says, voice panicked, “Okay, I’m- Stop, I’m gonna-”</p><p>Ian backs away quickly, and Mickey gets his hand on his own dick, squeezing at the base of himself to hold off an orgasm. He pants, tongue coming out to lick at his bottom lip. Ian watches another bit of precome appear at the tip of Mickey’s dick, and it’s just about the hottest thing he’s ever seen.</p><p>Once Mickey’s got himself back in the safe zone, they maneuver themselves around, deal with the condom and lube, and Mickey crawls onto Ian’s lap and lowers himself onto his dick.</p><p>Ian, sitting up straight with his back to the headboard, grips Mickey’s hips, runs his hands up his sweaty back and scratches at his skin as they fuck. They groan and they bite. Mickey gets his mouth back on Ian’s neck and sucks at him as he uses his knees to move in his lap.</p><p>“Holy shit, Mickey,” Ian groans, sliding his hands down to grab at his ass. He squeezes him there, drags curious fingers around to feel himself slipping in and out, before gripping at Mickey’s thighs and using all the muscle strength in his arms to bounce him up and down on his cock.</p><p>Fuck. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Ian latches on to Mickey’s shoulder with his teeth before smoothing over the slight indentations with his tongue, then his mouth.</p><p>Mickey jerks himself toward the end, his knuckles dragging against Ian’s belly as he works, and Ian buries his face and mouth in Mickey’s neck and murmurs, “Oh fuck, Mickey. Holy- You’re so fuckin’ hot. Shit.”</p><p>Mickey moves and he moves, and Ian grips him around the waist and bites at him as he comes, pleasure hard, intense like he’s being broken in two. </p><p>Holy fuck. <i>Holy fuck</i>.</p><p>He feels Mickey tense against him, feels him freeze, hears him groan as warm little spurts beat out against Ian’s belly.</p><p>Ian squeezes him, drags his mouth over his neck and shoulders, and holds on tight as he falls apart.</p><p>---</p><p>Afterward, as they come down, Mickey rests his forehead on Ian’s shoulder and puffs out hot breath against his skin.</p><p>Shit, Mickey. Ian runs his hands up and down his back, cuddles him a little in some semblance of a hug, and relaxes back against the headboard as Mickey relaxes into him.</p><p>---</p><p>They’re decidedly gross when they’re done. Mickey goes to the bathroom to clean up and returns with a wet washcloth, which he lobs at Ian’s face.</p><p>“Fuck you, asshole,” Ian complains, picking up the quickly-cooling washcloth and wiping down his belly and groin.</p><p>They get dressed and order room service, and by the time they’ve eaten rigatoni bolognese on the bed while watching the last hour of <i>The Big Lebowski</i>, it’s nearly 11:30.</p><p>For the first time, Ian doesn’t even make an effort to leave, and after downing his meds in the bathroom, he simply takes off his jeans and sweater and climbs in bed in his boxers. Mickey slides in after him, and they fall asleep three feet apart again, two maybe-friends sharing a space to sleep.</p><p>---</p><p>They wake to Mickey’s horrible, blaring phone alarm, which he’d set for eight. Ian doesn’t know the time of his <i>thing</i> or what his thing even is. He simply yawns, stretches, and gets out of bed to pull on his clothes.</p><p>Mickey gets up as well, looking rumpled and sleepy. Ian pulls on his sneakers as he watches him root around in his duffle for his toiletry pouch and a little stack of clothes--jeans, underwear, and what looks like a plain black sweatshirt.</p><p>“Hey,” Ian says before he has a chance to think.</p><p>Mickey looks up at him.</p><p>“D’ya wanna maybe like, go for breakfast at the diner where I work?” Ian pauses. Takes a deep, panicked breath. </p><p>“I mean. Not as like, a <i>thing</i> or whatever. I actually have to work later, so I could go in early, and you could just come in to eat. Most of the customers are older, so they won’t know who you are.” He rubs a hand over his eyes, then down his cheek. Looks away--at the floor, the windows, the bed beside him. “Um. The pancakes are really good.” </p><p>Fuck. Fucking pathetic.</p><p>Shit.</p><p>He glances over at Mickey, who’s holding an electric toothbrush and appearing about as bewildered as a person can.</p><p>Mickey presses his lips together and then stiffens. “Nah,” he says, digging around in his toiletry pouch. Ian hears the rattle of his pills. He pulls out a tube of toothpaste. “Prob’ly just gonna have an early lunch.”</p><p>Oh. Ian nods at him. “‘kay.” </p><p>After his laces are done up, he stands. “I’m gonna go.”</p><p>“Have fun at work.”</p><p>“Yeah. Have fun at your… thing.”</p><p>Mickey hums, gives Ian a little salute and a <i>see ya</i>, and heads into the bathroom.</p><p>---</p><p>It was a stupid thing. Again, he shouldn’t have asked. Asking’s just, well, asking for it, really. Mickey’s not going to ever want to go out with him anywhere, even in the capacity he’s just proposed--simply sharing a building while Mickey has his breakfast. </p><p>They’re not like that. They’re never going to be like that. Ian knows this as well as he knows anything. The fact that it makes his stomach hurt when Mickey turns him down is just fucking sad.</p><p>He goes home. Takes his meds with a mug of coffee. Goes upstairs and sits on his bed for twenty minutes, staring at his shoes.</p><p>---<br/>
---</p><p>He’s got a visible hickey.</p><p>He hadn’t looked at himself in the mirror before he left the hotel, but he sure as hell sees it after his shower once he’s dragged himself off his bed. </p><p>It’s about the size and shape of a thumb print, and it’s right smack on the side of his neck--in a place it’s impossible to hide with anything but Fiona’s concealer, which he wouldn’t put on in a million years. </p><p>He’s not fourteen and embarrassed about having sex, after all.</p><p>He does cringe at it, though, knowing he’s going to have to answer <i>questions</i>.</p><p>Sighing, Ian dresses for work in his gray Patsy’s T-shirt over a long-sleeved thermal, jeans, and Nikes. He heads downstairs to find something to eat before his meds kick in and give him the shakes, and of course, he has to run into Fiona, who’s doing paperwork at the counter.</p><p>“Hey, Sweetface,” she greets him, voice too high, too perky, too <i>much</i>. Ian doesn’t know if he’ll ever get used to her being like this. He hopes she’ll one day get used to <i>him</i> again, instead. </p><p>Ian gives her a good morning nod and smile and saunters into the kitchen to make himself some peanut butter toast.</p><p>He knows his sister’s looking at him. The gentle <i>scritch</i> of pencil marks, the rustle of paper, it’s all gone silent, the kitchen now filled with the sound of nothing but the rattle of the bread bag as he pulls out two slices.</p><p>After dropping them in the toaster and pressing down the lever, he takes a deep breath and looks over at her.</p><p>“You doin’ okay?” she asks, setting down her pencil and resting her chin on the palm of her hand as if settling in to talk. “Haven’t seen much of you since yesterday morning.”</p><p>Ian scratches his chin. “I’m great,” he says, turning to search the dishrack for a clean coffee mug. It’s a mistake, as it gives Fiona the perfect view of the side of his neck.</p><p>“Nice hickey.”</p><p>He presses his lips together.</p><p>She’ll be expecting him to tell her about the guy now, as he has nowhere else to go and nothing on his hands but two pieces of toast.</p><p>“Yeaaah,” he murmurs, drawing out the word as a way of saying, <i>you caught me.</i></p><p>“Ya seein’ somebody?”</p><p>Ian takes a deep breath and, after his toast is ready, drops them on a plate and starts to slather them in peanut butter.</p><p>“Sorta?” He shrugs, the butter knife making a satisfying <i>sccrrrritch</i> across the toast as he spreads the Skippy.</p><p>“What’s that mean?”</p><p>He chances a glance at Fiona, and she’s smiling at him like she wants the details. And okay. Whatever.</p><p>It feels weird, but. </p><p>Ian sniffs, says, “I’m in a kind of friends-with-benefits situation.”</p><p>“With <i>who</i>?”</p><p>“Just some guy I met.”</p><p>She raises her eyebrows at him, and he moves his plate to an empty spot on the counter, picks up a piece of toast, and takes a crunching bite.</p><p>“Mm. Yeah,” he says, chewing. “Casual thing.”</p><p>“Says the hickey on your neck.”</p><p>Ian laughs in three puffs out his nose and finishes up his first slice of toast. Fiona goes back to her paperwork, a sweet smile on her face.</p><p>She’s definitely been there--has been in just about as many types of relationships as you can. She’s had boyfriends and hook-ups. There have been a few guys she’s slept with on the regular while claiming she can’t date them because she’s got five kids to raise.</p><p>“Hey, Fi?”</p><p>Fiona looks up again, brows raised expectantly.</p><p>“Hypothetically…” Ian takes a bite of his second piece of toast, and with his mouth full, continues with, “What would you do if you had a friends-with-benefits thing goin’ on and the guy didn’t really wanna be seen with you outside the hotel room?”</p><p>Ian <i>knows</i> it’s a different sort of situation. He <i>knows</i> Mickey’s a well-known figure who may not be strictly out in the public realm. Hanging out with an FWB is very different for regular people than it is for celebrities, who have to worry about inciting speculation. He gets it. </p><p>Ian’d just realized in the twenty minutes he’d spent sitting on his bed, back to the wall, that what bothers him isn’t the fact that they aren’t hanging out in public. That’s neither here nor there. What bothers him is how Mickey acts about it--like it’s so far out of the realm of possibility that it isn’t worth entertaining for a second. </p><p>He thinks that mostly, his problem is that he’s starting to like Mickey, and he doesn’t like the limits placed on their relationship--as if sex, dinner, and TV is as far as it can or will ever go. </p><p>Ian looks up at Fiona, who’s tapping the eraser of her pencil against the form in front of her. “Friends-with-benefits situations never work,” she says, dismissing his question in favor of a proclamation. “None of them. Somebody always catches feelings and ends up gettin’ hurt.” She gives Ian a sympathetic look. “Get out while you can.”</p><p>Fuck.</p><p>He eats the rest of his toast in silence.</p><p>---<br/>
---</p><p>Ian already sort of has plans with Mickey on Saturday, as unbelievably, he’d said he was going to be in town again. </p><p>Between work and video games and smoking cigarettes on the front porch, Ian spends the first several days of the week waiting for a confirmation text. He knows he has Mickey’s number now and can text him first if he wants, but he’s shying the hell away from that as much as possible. It’s a hook-up. They’re friends with benefits, <i>friends</i> used loosely. Mickey gets the hotel. Mickey’ll let him know the time and room number.</p><p>Thanksgiving is Thursday. Kev fries a turkey, and the Gallaghers have a raucous meal together. Afterward, while everyone’s lying around, sleeping, fighting, watching TV, Ian opens up his text thread with Mickey.</p><p>He stares at the eggplant emoji for the longest time before tapping into the text box and writing</p><p><i>I know I said I wouldn’t text you about anything but our hook-ups, but I just wanted to say Happy Thanksgiving! Hope your day was good.</i> 🦃</p><p>Ian’s thumb hovers over the send arrow. He waits. Breathes. </p><p>Eventually, he deletes the message and puts his phone back in his pocket. </p><p>Nope. No. Not going there.</p><p>---</p><p>Mickey waits until Friday night to contact him about their Saturday hook-up, and annoyingly, he does it via Instagram DM.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>MICK MILK:</b> still on for tomorrow?</p><p><b>MICK MILK:</b> i’ve already got the room so you can come whenever, just lmk</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Ian opens up his text thread with Mickey and sends his reply via iMessage.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (8:31 PM):</b> You have my number, you know</p><p><b>Mickey (8:32 PM):</b> who dis</p><p><b>Ian (8:32 PM):</b> 😑</p><p><b>Mickey (8:33 PM):</b> fuckin with ya</p><p><b>Mickey (8:33 PM):</b> so you on?</p><p><b>Ian (8:33 PM):</b> Yeah, be there at 5ish</p><p><b>Mickey (8:33 PM):</b> <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/d846823119e49e3aa2be71f4be193d26/2849633b2d4c8e55-5e/s640x960/be567d2a2d1abb188529cdabe4813067112b9ea6.jpg">k</a></p><p>------------------------</p><p>Mickey gives him the room number and then doesn’t respond to Ian’s <i>See you then</i>.</p><p>---</p><p>Ian arrives at the hotel at 5:30. Mickey’s got <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xv9InPzAYbA">music</a> on in the room when Ian knocks, but unlike each time before, he doesn’t switch it off before opening the door--just turns it down until it’s a low murmur.</p><p>The room looks well-lived-in, and Ian wonders idly if Mickey’s been there since Thanksgiving. He’d ask, but he figures Mickey won’t tell him, so he simply removes his coat, tosses it over the desk chair, and moves over to sit on the bed so he can take off his boots.</p><p>Mickey’s smoking and on his phone, and for the first few minutes of their meet-up, it’s just Ian unlacing his shoes and Mickey wandering around, texting with one hand and holding a cigarette with the other.</p><p>Once he’s done with both, he puts his phone on the desk, drops his cigarette butt in a water glass, and stands in front of the bed and Ian.</p><p>He’s wearing an oversized <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/54dc5805e288b1d61e96566f7fd484fa/aa121159e299912c-48/s540x810/4019332720a4ae20e63e89dd031583a79c6d9c80.jpg">Nirvana hoodie</a> and his black skinny sweats, and his earrings are out again. Ian wants to ask about them, but he doesn’t.</p><p>“Hey,” Mickey says, coming closer. Though his body’s warm and toasty, radiating something Ian wants to snuggle into, he smells of smoke and fresh air--like he’s been outside in the cold.</p><p>Ian scoots back on the bed, and Mickey climbs on after him.</p><p>Ian’s fingers itch to help Mickey undress, but they take off their own clothes, throwing each article aimlessly onto the floor--shirts, pants, underwear.</p><p>After grabbing and putting to use the condom and lube waiting like good little sex aids on the nightstand, they fuck up against the headboard, then reverse cowboy again when Ian pulls Mickey down halfway through and stretches out on his back on the bed.</p><p>Ian holds on to Mickey’s ass, pulling him apart so he can watch himself fuck up into him, and Mickey groans and whispers <i>fuck, fuck</i>, his fingers squeezing and digging at Ian’s knees.</p><p>They finish off on all fours, Mickey having complained about his legs, and when Ian climaxes, blowing a series of hot breaths against the top of Mickey’s spine, the other man reaches over his shoulder and grips at his hair, tugging gently as he shakes apart himself, coming in pulses on his belly and a little on the comforter.</p><p>Afterward, they clean up with the ever-handy tissue box on the desk, and for the first time, Mickey wipes the lube off his ass in Ian’s presence, not sneaking off to the bathroom. It’s a small thing, a dumb thing, but Ian feels something unlock in his chest at it, like there’s been a shift, even if it’s simply Mickey’s comfort with letting Ian see his gross, human moments.</p><p>It’s short-lived.</p><p>After pulling on their underwear, they stretch out on the bed together. Ian feels optimistic--read, <i>stupid</i>--as he steals glances at Mickey who, after switching back on the bluetooth speaker on the nightstand, scrolls around on Spotify on his phone.</p><p>He starts up a playlist full of <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bv4hpn-HKrI">songs</a> that are <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kjBvm1QTGx8">slightly</a> <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UdsYiz9-Ru0">dreamy</a> and <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xBOR7xHE_zo">poppy</a> to the degree that Ian feels like he needs to reevaluate Mickey Milkovich as a person, then turns the volume down fairly low and sets his phone on the nightstand. Grabs his pack of cigarettes and lighter. Lights up.</p><p>“Got a spare?” Ian asks, holding out his fingers. Optimistic. Optimistic.</p><p>Mickey squints at him for a second, as if reevaluating <i>his</i> view of <i>Ian</i>, and shrugs before holding out his slightly-flattened pack. “Don’t drink. Was savin’ yourself for marriage before I fucked that up. Figured you wouldn’t smoke.”</p><p>Ian rolls his eyes at all that was just said, takes a cigarette and Mickey’s lighter, and lights up. He passes back the lighter and takes a long, hard drag before blowing the smoke in a straight stream up in the air.</p><p>Optimistic. Optimistic.</p><p>He turns to look at Mickey, who’s watching him right back.</p><p>“How was your Thanksgiving?” he chances, belly hopping and cigarette doing nothing to calm his nerves. </p><p>Mickey turns his face toward the ceiling and takes a drag. Blows out the smoke with a great, aggravated sigh. “I dunno, man.”</p><p>Ian expects him to continue--to clarify, to add more, but he doesn’t. Instead, he continues to smoke, and Ian watches him for a long moment before turning his own face to the ceiling.</p><p>It irritates him in a way he thinks it maybe shouldn’t. Mickey has zero obligation to talk to him about his life, his feelings, or anything at all outside the hotel room and the sex they have. He has no obligation to be Ian’s pal, his friend, to even spend more than a brief recovery period with him after the deed’s done. </p><p>But though he’s never been in this situation before--never had an FWB of any note--Ian can’t help but feel like this <i>You don’t get to know anything about me while I’m allowed to ask you questions about your life and family</i> dynamic is absolute bullshit, is abnormal, is Mickey’s high-and-mighty-ass way of drawing a line between himself and his <i>fan</i>, and that’s fucking stupid and so past where they are right now, four months into their hook-ups. </p><p>Jesus Christ, Ian’s touched literally every part of his body. He’s slept with him and had dinner with him and watched movies with him. He’s tossed M&amp;Ms into his mouth and made him smile that once. He has his fucking phone number.</p><p>And it’s not like he’s some rabid fan drooling over the dick of his idol. Maybe he was at the start, but at the moment, aside from the secret little thrill he gets sometimes watching his live streams and knowing he gets to bang him, he’s <i>not</i> a groupie on his knees. Mickey might view him that way, who knows, but he doesn’t view <i>himself</i> that way. Not anymore. Not after Mickey’s started being more casual around him--more human.</p><p>So y’know what? Whatever. Ian finishes up his cigarette in silence, then leans over Mickey to drop the butt into the water glass on the nightstand.</p><p>When he returns to his original position, rather than stretching out once more on his back, he lies on his side, watching Mickey’s profile. He’s finished his own cigarette now and is chewing on his lips and idly scratching at his chest. He looks like he’s thinking.</p><p>“Did you get to see your family?” Ian asks, referring back to the Thanksgiving question, not giving up.</p><p>Mickey sighs. His fingers stop moving on his chest and instead switch to fiddling with the band of his underwear at his hip. “Yeah.”</p><p>“Cool.”</p><p>There’s a pause in which the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p00v9ZFhWJM">song changes</a>. Mickey picks up his phone, appears to check his texts, and sets it back down again.</p><p>Ian presses his lips together for a moment, and then with a steadying huff out his nose, asks, “So where did you grow up?”</p><p>Mickey <i>chh</i>s, but it’s not amused this time. He rubs his index finger over his lips and squirms like he’s uncomfortable. Appears to school himself. Shrugs.</p><p>“Oh, c’mon.” Ian reaches a hand out and playfully shoves at his shoulder. “I told you where I grew up.”</p><p>“It’s none of your fuckin’ business, man.”</p><p>“Okay. Fine.” Ian rolls once more onto his back and feels like punching something. And he considers leaving it, letting it go, ignoring it because it’s not a big deal, really. He knows what this is, and what it is is a no-strings hook-up. That’s all.</p><p>But fuck. He blows out a breath.</p><p>“So I can fuck you, spend the fuckin’ night with you, tell you about my family and answer your questions about where I’m from, but I can’t know shit about you?”</p><p>Mickey mumbles a quiet <i>fuck</i> and sits up. “It’s not personal.”</p><p>“Exactly.” Ian’s getting a little angry now. He pushes up to sitting, as well, criss-crossing his legs and twisting around so he’s angled straight at the other man.</p><p>Mickey glances around the room, eyes falling everywhere but on Ian, working his lips between his teeth like he’s contemplating what to say.</p><p>Finally, he sighs, clearly exasperated. “Look.”</p><p>Ian raises his eyebrows in response, waiting.</p><p>“This is cool what we’re doin’, y’know. Don’t ruin it.”</p><p>“Ruin it <i>how</i>?”</p><p>“I dunno. Just like, tryna get personal and shit.”</p><p>“Mickey.” Ian tamps down his anger though it’s continued to grow. Reins it in. “I’m not askin’ to be your fuckin’ boyfriend. It just might be nice to know even a little bit about you. I literally don’t know <i>anything</i>. ‘s’like I’m bangin’ a ghost.”</p><p>Mickey scoffs--looks thoughtful for a moment, his face softening, before settling right back into his irritated expression. “There’s a reason I don’t tell my shit to the world.”</p><p>“Um. I’m not the world?”</p><p>Mickey doesn’t respond, simply climbs off the bed and heads to the mini-fridge to get a beer. Rather than a six-pack, he’s got a few individual 24 ounces of various brands, and he pulls out a Miller Lite, pops the tab, and takes a loud slurp at the foam. </p><p>“It’s not a personal thing,” Mickey repeats, causing Ian to roll his eyes. “I don’t talk about my life.”</p><p>“Will you just stop treating me like I’m a fuckin’ fan?”</p><p>Mickey smirks around the mouth of his drink, and something in his demeanor shifts. He brings his beer back to the bed and climbs on. “So you’re not a fan?”</p><p>Ian looks at him for a second--watching his quirked brow, the shiny drop of beer on the center of his bottom lip, the stubble beginning to crop up along his jaw. Asshole.</p><p>He leans over and sucker-punches him in the shoulder.</p><p>Mickey swears and jerks, a bit of beer spilling over the lip of his can onto his boxers. “Bitch!”</p><p>It feels good. Ian flops down onto his back and smirks at the ceiling.</p><p>They’re quiet for several minutes. Ian stews in his annoyance but doesn’t let it escalate, and Mickey drinks half his drink and sets it on the nightstand.</p><p>The bed dips, and Ian tilts his head to watch Mickey stretch back out beside him. There’s a sigh.</p><p>“What d’ya wanna know?”</p><p>Ian preens because he wants to, then turns fully on his side. Mickey’s looking at him a little like he wants to kill him, a little like he’s entirely amused. Whatever.</p><p>Ian sighs, holding a hand up like he’s grasping for an idea. And he could go with something deep, and he could go with something uber personal, but what he goes with is “What’s your middle name?”</p><p>Clearly not expecting that, Mickey huffs a laugh and raises his brows until they’re points. “Aleksandr.” </p><p>Cute.</p><p>“Mi-<i>ky</i>-l--”</p><p>“Mi-<i>kay</i>-lo.”</p><p>“Mikhailo Aleksandr Milkovich.”</p><p>Mickey nods, eyes wide and annoyed like Ian’s slow on the uptake. “Ya happy?”</p><p>Ian purses his lips and shrugs. “No. Stop bein’ such a fuckin’ prick.”</p><p>“Jesus Christ.”</p><p>Ian considers hitting him again but doesn’t. Instead, he gets up and goes to the bathroom.</p><p>When he comes back, Mickey’s put on his sweats and is sitting shirtless on the desk chair, flipping through the room service menu.</p><p>“Ya gonna leave or d’ya want food?” he asks, voice matter-of-fact. Ian grabs up his jeans and sweatshirt and starts getting dressed. “Food’s okay.”</p><p>Mickey hums and picks up his cell phone.</p><p>After he’s ordered them a pepperoni pizza and salad, he stands from the chair and wanders off in search of his hoodie.</p><p>Ian watches him as he does up his own jeans, and then, after he’s got his top on, asks, “Do you <i>never</i> wanna like, leave the hotel for food?”</p><p>He’s asked it over and over again, and once more, he knows the answer, and he knows why the answer is what it is, but despite it all, Ian’s hoping for a clear response now. A <i>no because…</i> or a <i>we can’t since…</i>. Anything but a straight-up <i>no</i>.</p><p>Something complicated flashes over Mickey’s face for a moment before he says, “Uhh. No? The food here’s bomb.”</p><p>“Yeah. Fine.”</p><p>“<i>Jesus Christ</i>, Ian.”</p><p>Mickey sounds truly annoyed now, and Ian crosses his arms over his chest. </p><p>“I don’t know what you want me to say here.” Mickey holds out his hands. “Like, what? We’re not goin’ on a fuckin’ date, man.”</p><p>“I don’t <i>want</i> to go on a date with you, asshole.”</p><p>“Okay? Good.”</p><p>Ian walks over to the nightstand, grabs the remote, and sits down on the bed. He flips on the TV.</p><p>They’re in a regular room again, and there’s nowhere to sit but the bed, the desk chair, or the couch, which is not four feet from Ian. Mickey looks around for a minute, then, as if deciding <i>fuck it</i>, joins him on the bed.</p><p>They settle into silence for a while, and Mickey appears to relax, his brows lowering and body slinking back against the headboard. He crosses his ankles as he watches <i>Stepbrothers</i> and slurps away at the remainder of his beer.</p><p>But when Ian starts to talk again, he looks at the ceiling like, <i>Why, God, why?</i></p><p>“I don’t give a fuck about that,” Ian says, voice quiet. It’s suddenly of utmost importance to him that Mickey understands. “Just stop treating me like I don’t fuckin’ know you at all.”</p><p>“You <i>don’t</i>.”</p><p>“Shut up.”</p><p>Mickey sighs, and it’s a resigned <i>yeah, okay</i> sigh, like he’s giving up the fight.</p><p>---</p><p>When the food comes, they devour their pizza and salad while watching the movie, then sit cross-legged after they’ve cleaned up and watch an episode of <i>Family Guy</i>.</p><p>They fuck again, but it’s not particularly playful or fun. Mickey asks if Ian wants to, and Ian agrees, and they bang with Mickey bent over the bed like the first time.</p><p>Before Ian pulls out, he thinks about it for a second and then presses a kiss to Mickey’s shoulder, and Mickey reaches a hand back and runs his fingers gently through his hair. It’s a thing he doesn’t have to do, and Ian’s stomach swoops at it even as he pulls away sooner than normal and goes to get cleaned up.</p><p>“I’m gonna head out,” he says, not knowing he’s going to say it until the words are already leaving his lips. “I work early, so.”</p><p>It’s a lie, but Mickey doesn’t need to know that. Ian gets dressed and pulls on his coat.</p><p>“Do you, uh-” Mickey starts after a couple minutes of silence, eyes following Ian as he zips up. His face looks slack, like he isn’t bothering to school his expression--isn’t bothering to hold himself in, his feelings loose and apparent.</p><p>Ian raises an eyebrow at him, but Mickey doesn’t finish his first train of thought. He just shrugs, hardens his gaze, and says, “Yeah. ‘kay.” </p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Nothin’. Guess I’ll see ya or whatever.”</p><p>Ian adjusts the sleeves of his coat and nods. “Yeah. Later.”</p><p>The exit is awkward, and when Ian’s back out in the hallway, pulling the door closed behind him, he can’t help but feel like Mickey didn’t want him to go.</p><p>---<br/>
---</p><p>Ian had actually asked the morning off so he could stay over with Mickey. As it stands, he sleeps until nine and then lies, sluggish and conflicted, in his tiny single bed at home in a room full of brothers.</p><p>Fiona comes knocking at ten. It’s not terribly late to sleep by teenage standards, but for someone who spent most of his teenage years getting up with the sun to train, it’s out of character for his mentally healthy days.</p><p>Ian gets it. He understands why his sister slips into his room and crouches by his bed like she’s worried he’s sick. He still hates it.</p><p>“Good morning,” she murmurs, touching his hair. “You doin’ okay?”</p><p>Ian sighs and rolls over onto his back. “Fine.”</p><p>Fiona doesn’t leave, so Ian opens his eyes and stretches. Sits up. “Just had a weird night. I’m good.”</p><p>He doesn’t know whether or not Fiona believes him, but she seems at least remotely okay for the time being. She tells him Liam’s made pancakes that’re getting cold, pets his hair again, and slinks back out of the room.</p><p>Fuck, does he ever hate this shit.</p><p>He grabs his phone, pulls his pillow up to rest between his back and the wall, and checks his notifications.</p><p>To his surprise, he has a text from Mickey, sent after he’d already gone to bed the night before.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Mickey (3:19 AM):</b> look, i don’t know what to do here, if you wanna end this we can.</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Ian doesn’t know how to tell him that he very much doesn’t want to end it. He fucking <i>likes</i> him. </p><p>It’s just a problem that he likes him because it’s got him wanting more than what they have, even though he’s well aware that what they have is probably all he’s ever going to get.</p><p>He checks the time on the text. 3:19.</p><p>Mickey had been awake at three-fucking-nineteen in the morning thinking about their shit.</p><p>Fuck.</p><p>When they’re together, Mickey’s usually out at midnight. Something cools and then warms in Ian’s belly.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (10:09 AM):</b> It’s fine. I’ll see you soon.</p><p>------------------------</p><p>---</p><p>He thinks the best way to deal with this situation is to back off a little--to stop playing with fire. He’s still going to hook up with Mickey when he can, and he’s still going to enjoy their time together, but he’s got to get his emotions under control. He’s got to stop <i>expecting</i> things or wanting things.</p><p>This is clearly a hook-up to Mickey. He’s made himself clear time and time again. If Ian wants to continue having sex with him, watching movies with him, having all-around fun Saturday nights with a hot guy who seems to not mind his company, he’s going to have to get over himself and his desires.</p><p>For the next week, he doesn’t respond to any of Mickey’s tweets. He doesn’t watch his live streams. He stays subscribed and continues to follow him on all platforms except Instagram but refrains from regularly checking his posts. </p><p>On a whim, he even changes his Twitter handle and makes his account private. He follows about fifty accounts that have nothing to do with MICK MILK and sets his profile photo to a picture of his shoes instead of the weird Go Army propaganda he’d had up since he was a dumb kid.</p><p>It feels a bit like a fresh start, and for a while, it keeps his thoughts balanced when he’s able to scroll and see funny animal videos and cool science shit instead of just fans obsessing over gifs of Mickey.</p><p>On the Monday of the second week in December, though, sending him right back on his bullshit, he receives an Instagram DM from Mo.</p><p>He’s sitting in the kitchen on the family laptop, making a list on a notepad of job openings because he’s desperate to get the fuck out of Patsy’s. Surprise, surprise, the options for people without a high school diploma are limited, and his list is small. He’s thumping his pencil against the notepad in frustration when he hears the alert.</p><p>Curious, he swipes open the message.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Morgan Stoll:</b> Greetings, Ian! I hope you’re doing well. I realised I never sent this to you, and it’s a good one, I think! Take care! 🙂 </p><p>------------------------</p><p>With her message, she’s sent along the picture she’d taken of him and Mickey after the cooperative gameplay session.</p><p>Ian smiles when he sees it. He can’t help it. He looks goofy, cheesing like a kid, but Mickey is an absolute terror of a toddler. He’s scowling like his mom’s just made him pose for a picture with Santa and he thinks he’s too old for it, and Ian wants to draw a heart around his head. </p><p>Oh no oh no oh no.</p><p>He saves the picture to his own camera roll.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian Gallagher:</b> Thanks, Mo. Hope you’re good too! </p><p>------------------------</p><p>He adds a like heart to Mo’s message and wonders why in the absolute hell she sent that to him.</p><p>Not for the first time, he asks himself whether Mickey’s been talking to her about him. If she <i>knows</i>.</p><p>And he realizes he could just DM her and ask. It’d be a simple thing to do. But if Mickey <i>hasn’t</i> been talking to her about him, that’d be an awkward fucking exchange, indeed.</p><p>Ian taps over to her profile. She hasn’t made any new posts since the one on her birthday, but she’s added to her story. He views it.</p><p>The first few are reshares, mostly anti some British politician Ian’s never heard of, but in the middle, things get interesting. </p><p>She’s apparently with Mickey right the fuck now, as her last four story posts were all made within the past hour and all involve her in the passenger seat of a car. Two of them are heavily-filtered <i>stuck in traffic</i> selfies, the first giving her a small nose and freckles and the second giving her pink hair. The third one, however, is a regular selfie of Mo and Mickey, who’s in the driver’s seat.</p><p>Mickey’s wearing his Clubmasters, earrings, and a dark, <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/611f5d9bacdc8f60a1b04e89ec44f859/362ad8b28e3f8af5-20/s500x750/8b201979e961d201a0a61d07439f812b49e49e43.png">floral-print sweatshirt</a>, and he’s got his mouth pulled to one side in such a silly, relaxed way that Ian’s fairly certain indicates he has no idea Mo’s posting the pictures to her story.</p><p>Her last photo, posted just five minutes earlier, is simply Mickey. He’s driving--one arm outstretched, hand on the wheel, facing straight ahead, and he’s stupidly pretty.</p><p>Ian closes out of Instagram and wants to break something.</p><p>---<br/>
---</p><p>He takes his little notepad and goes job hunting on Thursday. Most of the places he checks out--a chain steakhouse, a grocery store, a printing business--either are no longer looking, are staffed entirely by what looks like sixteen-year-olds on Christmas break, or don’t seem interested for whatever reason.</p><p>He gets an offer at a mom-and-pop convenience store, but the pay’s barely above what he’s making at Patsy’s and the job certainly doesn’t afford the same perks that come with having a sister as manager. Plus, he gets serious right-wing homophobe vibes from the owner, who has a framed picture of Jesus behind the counter.</p><p>Whatever. Ian goes home. Changes into his gray T-shirt and jeans. Heads into the diner for the dinner shift.</p><p>---</p><p>When he gets home from work that night, yawning and ready for bed at barely nine, he receives a text from Mickey.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Mickey (9:06 PM):</b> hey, i’m in town for 2 nights next week (16th/17th) if you’re interested.</p><p>------------------------</p><p>What does he mean by that exactly? Ian sits down on his bed and sucks on his bottom lip. <i>Two nights</i> as in he’s asking Ian to stay with him the whole time? Or is this just an <i>I’ll be available either of those days</i> kind of thing?</p><p>Not that it matters.</p><p>Ian blows out a breath.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (9:09 PM):</b> Idk, maybe</p><p><b>Ian (9:09 PM):</b> Gotta check my schedule and figure out my work situation</p><p><b>Mickey (9:10 PM):</b> ok, whatever</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Ian sets down his phone and rubs his palms over his face.</p><p>---</p><p>He doesn’t check back in with Mickey, confirm, or even so much as look at his work schedule until two days before Mickey’s due to arrive. </p><p>Ian’s smoking and playing <i>Crash Bandicoot</i> when he gets the text.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Mickey (6:15 PM):</b> were you able to work it out?</p><p><b>Mickey (6:16 PM):</b> also did you delete your twitter?</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Ian pauses his game and holds his phone in both hands, considering. Why the fuck was Mickey looking for him on Twitter?</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (6:16 PM):</b> Changed my username and made it private 🔒</p><p><b>Mickey (6:16 PM):</b> why</p><p><b>Ian (6:17 PM):</b> Idk, why not?</p><p><b>Mickey (6:18 PM):</b> well were you able to work out the thing or not</p><p>------------------------</p><p>The thing.</p><p>Ian sighs.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (6:18 PM):</b> Yeah</p><p><b>Mickey (6:19 PM):</b> cool</p><p><b>Mickey (6:19 PM):</b> same place, i’ll send you the room number after i check in</p><p><b>Ian (6:20 PM):</b> 👍</p><p>------------------------</p><p>He remembers thinking, after he’d sent the tweet basically revealing himself to Mickey on Twitter, that if Mickey saw it amongst the deluge of other replies, it was fate.</p><p>He’d seen it.</p><p>Over a month later, he’d apparently searched up his username or looked in his own Tweets &amp; Replies for Ian’s account. For what fucking reason.</p><p>Ian doesn’t know if the sizzle beneath his skin is excitement or anxiety.</p><p>All he knows is that he’s sure--now more than ever--that Mickey is a goddamned mythological siren. </p><p>The only question is whether or not he’s going to lure him to the rocks and leave him shipwrecked.</p><p>---<br/>
---</p><p>Mickey had gotten a two-story suite this time, the bottom floor consisting of a living room, small dining area, and a <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/d2d7166bf0f8c22510d81ef875e99919/0df4be4a39703ee3-13/s1280x1920/c0d610dae76711ef3c02ce4a7aef55f47aa590c0.jpg">spiral staircase leading to the top floor</a>, where there’s a loft-style standard bedroom with incredible views of Lake Michigan.</p><p>Ian had quickly climbed the staircase barely a minute after entering the room, the draw of luxury too enticing to be patient about, and Mickey had followed him up, the <i>thud</i> of his feet on the stairs behind him like an echo.</p><p>The loft room is small and bright, lit now by lamps and the gleam of the city lights, and its bare-bones nature--just a bed, two nightstands, and a chair--make it seem more intimate than any other room he and Mickey have stayed in. To add to that, they’re on the 22nd floor, and Ian can’t help but feel like he and Mickey are alone together at the top of the world.</p><p>He takes off his coat and tosses it across the chair, then walks over to the windows and peers out at the lake in the seven o’clock darkness, nothing but the faint glow from the city illuminating the water.</p><p>“This is kind of amazing,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead against the glass.</p><p>Mickey hums, and Ian feels him come closer, his warmth now apparent.</p><p>And Ian means to turn, to raise his eyebrow at him, ask him a question, <i>properly greet him</i>, really, as he hasn’t yet aside from uttering a “Holy shit, this fuckin’ room,” as he’d entered. But before he can, he feels hands gently take him by his hips, then snake around to his belly and lock together in what Ian can only describe as a hug.</p><p>Ian had wanted to maybe talk first. Lay some groundwork. Not have a heart-to-heart at all but feel him out a little in order to figure out what the hell’s going on with them right here, right now.</p><p>Clearly, Mickey’d had other plans. His lips touch the side of Ian’s neck, and Ian tilts his head to the side and breathes in little pants as Mickey kisses and sucks around the collar of his henley, then up under his jaw.</p><p>His hands stroke against Ian’s belly and then slide down to his crotch, Mickey’s palms pressing and dragging--then rubbing--against his cock through his jeans.</p><p>Well. Okay. </p><p>Ian lets it happen--reaches his right arm around and touches what he can of Mickey’s lower back, ass, and thigh.</p><p>Ian’s getting hard under Mickey’s attentions, and at that, Mickey starts to breathe in shaky puffs against Ian’s saliva-damp neck. He fiddles with Ian’s button, then his zipper, and slides his hand down the front of his jeans to stroke him through his underwear.</p><p>It’s such a fucking hot thing to see, Mickey’s left hand with the U-UP knuckles holding at Ian’s waist and only the wrist of his right visible, the rest of his hand down his pants.</p><p>Ian squeezes his eyes shut and moans a soft, breathy <i>uhh</i> as Mickey’s fingers drag up and down the length of him, the rub of cotton and the pressure of Mickey’s hand making his belly clench.</p><p>At his sounds, Mickey pulls his hand free and turns him around, shoving him gently toward the bed.</p><p>They undress then, Ian getting out of his shoes, henley, undone jeans, and boxers, and Mickey pulling off his <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/4b8e88ab95e045c06f501679c87cd46f/9df575362d92ef47-c4/s1280x1920/35104463996489a400c9460b6c1f4e25319f26f9.jpg">Metallica sweatshirt</a> and black skinny jeans with rips in the knees. He’s got on a pair of black boxer briefs that are twisted at the waist, and all Ian can think to do is drop to his knees, grab him around the hips, and lick at him through the fabric.</p><p>Mickey gets him by the hair and tugs gently as Ian works, using his mouth to bring Mickey’s plump, half-mast cock to full hardness. Ian leaves wet spots in the cotton as he teases the head of his dick with his tongue, then his mouth, sucking around him as much as possible until Mickey drags his hands down to Ian’s neck and grips at him, squeezing as he pants out pleasure-sighs that make Ian groan. That make him pull away, hook his fingers in the waistband of Mickey’s underwear, and tug them down.</p><p>He scrambles back up onto the bed as Mickey kicks off his boxer briefs and walks naked to the chair, where his suitcase lies open beneath the sprawl of Ian’s coat. Ian places his hand on his cock and strokes as he watches Mickey unzip a large pocket and pull out that same 30-pack of Bareskins they’ve been using since July, plus the Astroglide.</p><p>Idly, he wonders if these are Mickey’s travel condoms and lube, and something about that makes Ian snort.</p><p>Mickey turns to look at him. “What?”</p><p>Ian shrugs and picks back up his jerking off, huffing a breath when Mickey’s cheeks flame up at it.</p><p>Over the next several minutes, they take care of the condom and lube, and then Mickey rides Ian within an inch of his life in the center of the bed.</p><p>It’s not <i>rough</i> per say, but Mickey’s much more active than usual in a way that perplexes Ian as much as it turns him on.</p><p>Not to say that Mickey’s usually lying back and thinking of England, but rather than the typical push-and-pull of their fucking, he’s unquestionably running the show right now, his hands gripping Ian’s shoulders and knees framing his hips. He moves on him hard, fast, and Ian finds himself just squeezing at his hips, at his ass and his thighs, helping him move as best he can but mostly just gasping and letting Mickey ride him into the mattress.</p><p>“Holy fuck,” Ian murmurs, eyes wide as he watches Mickey rock and sweat above him, his face pink and lips bitten red. “Holy fuck, Mickey. Oh shit.”</p><p>Mickey slows for a second--adjusts his position. He moves his hands from Ian’s shoulders and instead, places one on the center of Ian’s chest and the other on the bed beside his neck. He jerks his hips and pushes down hard on Ian and on the bed, using them to almost drag himself forward on Ian’s cock, then leaning back. It tips him down until his neck is mere inches from Ian’s face.</p><p>And he’s trying to not engage in this shit, and he’s trying to detach a little, to control his emotions. But all Ian can do right now--as he sees the vein run along Mickey’s red, heat-blotchy neck and even further down, the yellowed, fading bruise above his right nipple where Ian’d sucked a hickey onto him a couple weeks prior--is pull his head down and get his mouth on his throat.</p><p>Mickey pauses for a second as Ian does it--as he sucks at him but then, upon realizing he can’t leave marks, softens to kisses that trail their way down and around to the side of his neck. He lets him--<i>he lets him</i>--and Ian would swear to God he heard him sigh at it. All the same, Mickey wiggles his shoulders and pulls his head back to get Ian to stop.</p><p>Ian lets go of the back of his head and lets Mickey slink away, and with a frustrated huff, he gets his hand down between them to jerk Mickey’s cock instead as the other man starts back up his movements.</p><p>It doesn’t take much longer after that. Three, four more minutes, and Mickey’s jerking to a stop, fingers of his left hand digging into Ian’s chest and right hand gripping the pillow beside his head as he comes in warm pulses up Ian’s torso.</p><p>“Fuck,” Ian groans, pushing his head back into the pillows and panting as he feels the squeezes around his cock.</p><p>When he’s done, Mickey manages enough strength to slide off Ian’s cock and sit back on his thighs. And Ian watches in disbelief as Mickey takes off his condom, tossing it aimlessly onto the floor by the bed, and starts jerking him off.</p><p>“Oh shit,” Ian whispers, watching Mickey’s fist and feeling the pleasure build, build, build. </p><p>God, it’s so fucking good. Everything with Mickey is so fucking good that Ian doesn’t know how he’ll possibly manage to escape him.</p><p>Mickey watches his face with that strange expression--the belly-kiss expression--and when Ian comes, the last thing he sees before he shuts his eyes to ride out the waves is Mickey’s mouth dropping open like he’s lost his breath.</p><p>---</p><p>They lie on the bed in silence for a while. Mickey plays on his phone and Ian runs his fingers through the stickily-drying mixed come on his belly, which is objectively disgusting but feels totally hot in the moment.</p><p>He does eventually need to wash it off lest it dry into his body hair, so he wanders naked into the bathroom to clean up. When he returns, he finds Mickey’s already re-dressed and downstairs.</p><p>Ian heads down the spiral staircase once his own clothes are back on. </p><p>“Ordered some food,” Mickey says, and Ian realizes it’s just the third sentence outside of sex the two of them have uttered tonight.</p><p>“Thanks.”</p><p>Mickey’s sitting at the table, texting somebody, so Ian trudges over to the couch. He sits down, flips on the TV, and the two of them occupy the same space for nearly an hour and barely say a word.</p><p>They do eat together, though. Ian joins Mickey at the table, and they eat risotto and drink these weird, virgin cran-lemonade things Mickey’d ordered. </p><p>“So you’re here for two days?” Ian asks in an attempt to make conversation. He stirs his straw in his drink, making an obnoxious sloshing sound.</p><p>Mickey shrugs, chewing his food.</p><p>Cool. Cool cool cool. Ian takes a deep breath and picks up his fork.</p><p>He doesn’t necessarily <i>intend</i> to get into this again, but it’s just so frustrating. A perfectly normal response to his question--even between fucking <i>strangers</i>--would’ve been <i>Yeah, I’m here to…</i> or <i>Yeah, I got here this morning, and I’m leaving…</i>. </p><p>That goddamn <i>shrug</i>. It drives Ian nuts because it’s just more of the same--more of Mickey refusing to answer a question that would in any way pin him down as having an existence outside his career and this hotel room.</p><p>Ian shouldn’t be so dramatic, but it just aggravates the hell out of him.</p><p>“What the fuck now?” Mickey’s noticed his irritation. </p><p>Shit. </p><p>“Nothing.”</p><p>“The hell it’s nothing. Stop bein’ such a whiny bitch.”</p><p>“Fuck you.”</p><p>Mickey bites his bottom lip, brows up in points like he’s either about to slap someone or gaze in awe at their stupidity.</p><p>Without having taken another bite, Ian sets down his fork. He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest.</p><p>Fine.</p><p>Mickey jerks his shoulders in a <i>what the fuck, man?</i> expression, and Ian bites his lip, considering what he should say.</p><p>
  <i>I like you. Will you please let that be okay?</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Will you let me know you? I don’t need anything else but that.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Stop being so private. I want to be able to fuck you <b>and</b> talk to you.</i>
</p><p>None of them would cut it. He loosens his arms, then drops them. Leans forward and places his elbows on the table.</p><p>“Look,” he says, getting a hand up to rub over his face. “I like fucking you.”</p><p>Mickey gives him a look that screams, <i>tell me something I don’t know</i>.</p><p>“I like fucking you <i>a lot</i>. We’re like, really good at having sex with each other.”</p><p>“So what’s the problem? Why’re you bein’ so fuckin’ weird?”</p><p>“I’m not, it’s just.” Ian takes a deep breath. And he means to go about this calmly, cooly. He means to have a mature conversation with Mickey about like, <i>walls</i> and shit.</p><p>But what he says is, “You’re just really fuckin’ annoying.”</p><p>Mickey simply looks at him.</p><p>“I don’t wanna like, fuckin’ <i>ask for your hand in marriage</i> here. I just now asked you if you were here for two days and you shrugged. Like, what the fuck is that? Can you give me <i>something</i>? Are you allowed to tell me you’re here for a job or for your family or because you like my fuckin’ dick? Am I allowed to <i>ever</i> have a conversation with you that doesn’t deal with shit currently happening in the room or with exclusively <i>my</i> life?”</p><p>“Why the fuck does this shit matter to you?” Mickey’s raising his voice, now. He drops his own fork and sits back in his chair.</p><p>“Because I wanna be your fuckin’ friend!”</p><p>It’s that, really. He likes Mickey, and he wants to talk to him and laugh with him. He wants to have sex with him and hang out with him and not feel like their meet-ups are a scheduled routine with a certain set of tasks to be accomplished before Ian leaves for home.</p><p>Mickey eyes him for a moment, then shrugs. “You’re not my friend.”</p><p>“Great. Wonderful.” Ian shoves backward in his seat and stands. “So I’m what? Just some fan who fucks you up the ass in secret?”</p><p>Ian starts heading toward the spiral staircase. He needs to grab his coat and shoes.</p><p>“Where you goin’?” Mickey asks, and he sounds tired. Ian looks over his shoulder at him.</p><p>He’s slumped in the seat, face hard but brows lowered, the skin bunched in-between with frustration.</p><p>“I fucked you. Did the deed. I’m gettin’ my shit and goin’ home.”</p><p>Ian climbs the stairs, determined, stomach twisting. He hates this. He fucking hates this. He hates this siren-asshole he likes so much.</p><p>When he reaches the top of the stairs and is turning right to go into the bedroom, he hears Mickey murmur, resigned, “Ian.”</p><p>Ian blows out a breath. Picks up his boots and sits down on the edge of the bed to put them on.</p><p>“<i>Ian</i>.” There’s a gentle rattling sound as Mickey climbs the staircase.</p><p>“What, Mickey?”</p><p>Mickey doesn’t fully breach the room when he reaches the loft, just stands around at the top of the staircase and leans back against the rail. “I was thinkin’ you’d stay,” he says, fidgeting.</p><p>He looks like a nervous kid--like he had when he’d shyly asked Ian to stay the night on Halloween--and Ian purses his lips and turns away so he doesn’t have to look at him. He picks up his sock and pulls it on his foot.</p><p>“I’ve gotta work tomorrow, anyway,” he says, and it’s true this time. Fiona’s got him on for an early shift. He was gonna leave tonight no matter what. “Can’t afford to take off all the time. I’m fuckin’ poor.” Ian looks over at Mickey, then down at his boot, which he grabs and starts to slide on. “Not that I’d expect you to get that, y’know. And not that you’d fuckin’ tell me, but you’re probably Northside, right? Probably grew up in fuckin’ Lincoln Park with your privileged little family.”</p><p>Mickey comes over then, and Ian doesn’t know what he expects. Maybe he’s expecting him to yell, or maybe he’s expecting him to hit him. </p><p>But he’s not expecting him to put his hands on his shoulders and try to tilt him back on the bed.</p><p>Mickey dips his head and puts his mouth on Ian’s neck in that same spot he always goes for. He’s desperate, breath hard and noisy as he drags his hands down Ian’s shoulders to his fingers, laces them, pulls them up above Ian’s head, and tries to gently pin them against the mattress.</p><p>His lips are soft and tongue is warm as he kisses up behind Ian’s ear.</p><p>Ian squirms around, wiggling out of his weak grip. “Stop, Mickey. Fuckin’ <i>stop</i>.”</p><p>Mickey pulls back immediately and straightens, then takes a few steps backward so he’s standing away from Ian, eyes wide and worried. He murmurs an oddly distressed, breathy, <i>fuck</i> and runs his fingers across his mouth, back and forth. A scolded child.</p><p>Ian watches him for a minute, breathing hard, then goes back to his boots.</p><p>And while he’d expected an outburst a couple minutes earlier, he doesn’t expect it now.</p><p>“What do you fuckin’ <i>want from me</i>?” Mickey yells, and his voice is hard but shaky, like he’s trying to act tougher than he feels. He turns away for a moment, and Ian sees him swipe at his face with the back of his hand. “You’re so <i>fuckin’</i> annoying.” He turns back. “Like Jesus Christ, you don’t shut up about anything. Why do I have to tell you my life story?”</p><p>“You don’t,” Ian says, voice calm. Cool. Collected. Too calm. “You don’t have to tell me anything. It’s fine. You don’t want a fan to know your shit. It’s literally none of my business, and I’m an asshole for asking.”</p><p>He ties up his boot and, to Mickey’s silence, quickly pulls on the other sock and shoe.</p><p>And he’s working on tying that one when Mickey says, voice pleading, softer than it’s been all day, “It ain’t like that.”</p><p>Ian remembers those words from the bathroom. From their confrontation at the cooperative gameplay session. <i>It ain’t like that, man</i>.</p><p>“What does that <i>mean</i>?” Ian asks, and he doesn’t actually want it to sound as antagonistic as it comes across, his <i>mean</i> hard and rough. Accusatory.</p><p>“Why can’t you just be fuckin’ happy with this?”</p><p>Ian drops his laces and leans back, propping himself up with his hands. He looks at the ceiling and takes a deep, steadying breath. “I’m perfectly happy,” he says. Cuts.</p><p>He’s not looking at him, but he hears Mickey breathing in hard pants. He hears the soft <i>shh shh</i> of the legs of his jeans shifting against each other as he fidgets.</p><p>Mickey exhales loudly, and Ian finally drags his eyes from the ceiling to look over at him.</p><p>“What?” Ian asks, sitting up again. He props his foot up on his thigh and starts once more to tie his boot.</p><p>“I don’t tell people my shit because it’s <i>literal shit</i>,” Mickey says, and he sounds defeated in a way that makes Ian swallow, a lump forming in his throat.</p><p>“I don’t like anybody knowin’ anything about me. I don’t like people knowin’ about my family or where I’m fuckin’ goin’ or where I grew up or <i>how</i> I fuckin’ grew up, so.”</p><p>“That’s fine,” Ian says, dropping his laces again. He tries his hardest to gentle his voice. “You don’t have to tell anybody.”</p><p>Mickey stares at him. He inhales, nostrils flaring, and then exhales in a quick, audible puff. </p><p>He looks tired, and he looks unhappy, and as angry as Ian is--as completely exasperated and confused by Mickey’s apparent total lack of desire to let him wiggle in just an inch--his heart aches at the expression on his face.</p><p>Mickey swallows and fidgets, eyes darting to the wall behind Ian, then to the floor. He shifts on his feet and crosses his arms over his chest.</p><p>“I grew up in a piece of shit family,” he murmurs, voice quiet and thin like glass. “Buncha homophobic nazis. I was dirt poor with like, no fuckin’ education--sellin’ weed and runnin’ drugs with my brothers and dear old dad, who’s currently dyin’ of fuckin’ cancer, so.” </p><p>Ian’s heart sinks. He drops his foot off his knee, shoelace still untied. “Oh shit,” he says, blowing out a breath. “I’m… really fuckin’ sorry about your dad. Fuck.”</p><p>Mickey laughs, and it’s the strangest thing--completely unexpected. “Yeaaaah,” he says. Sniffs. “Not really the problem.”</p><p>Ian nods. “Okay.”</p><p>“There’s other shit. Worse shit. I just.” Mickey takes a deep breath, then closes his eyes and lets it out in a whoosh, his cheeks puffing up. “I got a lot goin’ on. There’s literally not one fuckin’ thing about my personal life I want anybody to know about.”</p><p>“Got it.”</p><p>Mickey nods at him, and he’s done. Ian can tell.</p><p>And he knows they’re in a standoff right now, waiting for someone to make a move. If Ian’s going to go, he’s going to finish tying up his boot. Mickey could go back downstairs.</p><p>They stare at each other.</p><p>Finally, after a long moment, Mickey comes over and sits down beside him on the bed.</p><p>“So that’s kinda why my Wikipedia page is mostly empty,” he says, and the tone is so different from a moment ago that Ian can’t help but laugh.</p><p>“Asshole,” Mickey says and leans over, bumping him with his shoulder.</p><p>“Fuck, I’m sorry,” Ian apologizes. “I shouldn’t have pushed you. I can… do that sometimes.”</p><p>“Oh, ya think?”</p><p>“Shut up.”</p><p>And well, they smile at each other. </p><p>Mickey gets up after a minute and wanders over to his suitcase, where he digs around and pulls out a fucking flask. Ian watches him, heart hammering, as he unscrews the lid and takes a drink.</p><p>“I’d offer you some, but.” </p><p>Ian laughs in two breathy little huffs out his nose. He’s got demons, too. He’ll tell him one day.</p><p>Not today, though. He holds out his hand.</p><p>“Wait, for real?” Mickey looks delighted.</p><p>“Gimme that.”</p><p>Mickey hands him the flask, and Ian takes a sip. It’s bourbon. Fuck. He gulps at it because after not having it for two plus years, it feels like acid in his throat.</p><p>He hears Mickey laugh at him, and he holds up his middle finger. Wants to tell him, <i>I’ve been drinking since I was a literal child. I just can’t really do it much anymore. Leave me alone.</i></p><p>But whatever. He lets Mickey think he’s just given him his first sip of whiskey because he looks so happy about it. He hands back the flask and wipes his mouth as he watches Mickey take one more drink, screw on the lid, and set it back on top of his suitcase.</p><p>“So ya leavin’?” Mickey asks, licking his lips and looking unsure. Looking like he desperately doesn’t want that to happen.</p><p>Ian shakes his head. “Nah. I’ll stay. But I really do have to work in the morning.” He kicks his boots back off and stands.</p><p>Ian and Mickey go downstairs, take turns microwaving their cooled risotto, and finish it in front of the TV. </p><p>Ian steals glances at Mickey, who occasionally steals glances at him.</p><p>He thinks about how Mickey’d said he’d grown up in a <i>homophobic nazi</i> family and how Ian had unintentionally started a minor cancellation campaign over perceived homophobia.</p><p>He couldn’t have known, but he still feels like shit. </p><p>---</p><p>When they’re done with their food, Mickey carries their trash over to the garbage and then tells Ian he’s going to take a shower.</p><p>Ian finishes watching the half-hour sitcom while Mickey showers, and when it’s over, he cuts off the TV and the lights and heads back upstairs to the bedroom. He strips down to his boxers and gets under the covers, then pulls out his phone to play around while he waits.</p><p>Mickey comes out about ten minutes later, a cloud of steam escaping the bathroom with him. He’s shirtless but wearing a pair of army green skinny sweats, and his wet hair is pushed back on his forehead. His earrings are out, skin is shiny and pink from the shower, and he smells like citrus bodywash.</p><p>He stares at Ian on the bed for a moment, wide-eyed like he wasn’t expecting him to be there, and then, as if shrugging to himself, comes over and climbs on with him, sliding under the covers with his pants on.</p><p>Ian turns to face him, and for a long minute they lie on their pillows, watching each other. Ian wants to touch his face. He wants to say, <i>You were upset in the bathroom. You’d been crying the day of the co-op session. I really suck sometimes, Mickey</i>, but he doesn’t. He knows it isn’t his fault, but he hates that Mickey was hurting. </p><p>“I’m sorry,” Ian says, fingers digging into his pillow--not reaching out to touch.</p><p>Mickey rolls his eyes. “You already apologized. Shut up.”</p><p>“Sorry for bein’ a dick.”</p><p>“Whatever.” Mickey breathes out a laugh, his lips tipping up just slightly at the corners. He <i>chh</i>s, and without much warning, shoves Ian childishly. </p><p>Ian shoves him in retaliation, getting him flat on his back.</p><p>And what the hell.</p><p>He climbs on top of him. Smooths back his wet hair.</p><p>“I know how you can make it up to me,” Mickey says, eyes shining. Fucking tease.</p><p>“Oh yeah?”</p><p>Mickey shrugs, feigning innocence, and Ian grins at him. He slides down his body, down under the covers, and hooks his fingers in the band of his sweats.</p><p>And then he makes it up to him.</p><p>---</p><p>Half an hour later, when they’ve both come and are resting, Ian stretched out half-on, half-off Mickey’s back, Mickey says, “You’re like a fuckin’ puppy.”</p><p>Ian laughs, pressing his mouth to Mickey’s shoulder. He kisses him there. “What?”</p><p>“Lickin’ me. And you kiss me too much.”</p><p>Ian sticks out his tongue, full puppy-mode, and licks the back of Mickey’s neck until he’s squirming and complaining. </p><p>“Ugh! Fuck you, bitch!” Mickey rolls over onto his back and rubs his spitty neck against the pillow to dry it. “Gross-ass motherfucker.”</p><p>Ian laughs, and it feels so fucking good. He shoves Mickey a little and then settles down on the pillow beside him, propping his head up on his hand. “I don’t kiss you too much,” he says, brows raised. “We’ve never even kissed.”</p><p>Mickey’s cheeks flame up--<i>they do</i>--and it makes Ian’s stomach flip. “Whatever,” he says, poking Ian’s chest. “You always have your mouth all over me.”</p><p>“Says the guy who gave me a <i>very</i> visible hickey I had to answer questions about for weeks.”</p><p>“Ha.”</p><p>“Oughta give you one.”</p><p>“No you won’t, bitch.”</p><p>“It’d look real nice during your live streams.”</p><p>Mickey brings both hands up and holds them to the sides of his neck as if protecting himself. “You mark up my neck, I’ll fuckin’ kill you.”</p><p>Ian hums and pokes him. “I’ll getcha one day.”</p><p>“Dickhead.”</p><p>“Whatever you say, Mickey.”</p><p>---</p><p>Ian leaves early the next morning, before Mickey’s even properly conscious.</p><p>He goes home, takes a shower, and gets ready for work.</p><p>Before he leaves, however, after taking his meds and scarfing down a pack of strawberry PopTarts, Ian considers for a moment, then jogs back upstairs.</p><p>He goes into his bedroom and drops to the floor, looking under his bed. And pushed back against the wall, sitting there a bit dusty amongst the come Kleenexes, porno mags, and random food wrappers and beer cans, is his old JROTC duffle.</p><p>Ian pulls it out, packs it with pajamas, fresh underwear, and clothes for tomorrow. He then goes downstairs and, with a shrug, tosses in his meds container with just his nighttime and tomorrow morning boxes left to be opened.</p><p>He stashes the duffle in the back room during his shift, and all day, as he’s taking orders and cleaning tables and washing dishes, he thinks about it. He thinks about the annoying, beautiful asshole waiting for him back at the hotel.</p><p>---</p><p>When he arrives--Fiona having taken mercy on him and allowed him to leave just after dinner-rush clean-up--Ian’s surprised to find Mickey stretched out on the couch, playing a PS5 he’s apparently brought with him and hooked up to the hotel TV.</p><p>Along with those same green sweats from the night before, he’s wearing a massive <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/d92b2cbdf2162092f2347e9f6e00c979/23af3c68c6fafcc7-b2/s1280x1920/3901b1672bf1bd90c4274d36bc66ae5096973523.jpg">Slayer T-shirt</a> he must’ve purposely purchased two sizes too big. There are multiple half-crushed beer cans on the coffee table, and he’s eating from a mini-bag of some sort of fancy, sea salt and vinegar kettle chips.</p><p>Mickey barely says anything to Ian when he comes over and drops down on the couch beside him, just makes a noise of recognition and continues playing whatever he’s playing.</p><p>It’s a visually dark game, and Mickey’s running a little man in heavy armor around a castle, slashing enemies in his path and pausing every once in a while on red marks on the ground to read messages apparently left by other players.</p><p>“Whatcha playin’?” Ian asks, reaching into Mickey’s chip bag and snatching one.</p><p>“<i>Demon’s Souls</i>.”</p><p>That means nothing to Ian, but he shrugs and settles in to watch.</p><p>It’s actually fun as hell watching Mickey play. He’s not only technically skilled, but clever, and Ian can’t help but feel a rush of adrenaline as he watches this man--whose pre-recorded Let’s Plays he’d stayed up late nights watching--play live.</p><p>As he’s not being recorded, he’s not as chatty as he usually is while he plays, but he still makes occasional comments. He explains things to Ian--about the game, the lore, the enemies, the graphics--and Ian asks questions Mickey answers easily and willingly, like it’s not even bothersome to do.</p><p>Mickey plays for about an hour more and then exits to the menu.</p><p>“Order us some room service,” he says, standing. “I gotta piss.”</p><p>Ian pretends to trip him on his way past, and Mickey stops and kicks his shin with his bare foot before heading off down the hall to the first floor bathroom.</p><p>---</p><p>They have dinner together, and it goes much better than dinner the previous night. The two of them sit at the little table and talk casually while they have their lobster spaghetti--a throwback to their first room service night.</p><p>Mickey doesn’t get personal, but there’s no need for it. They talk about the food and video games, and Ian asks Mickey about funny fan encounters.</p><p>“Think this is my funniest one,” Mickey answers casually, kicking Ian’s bare foot under the table.</p><p>“You suck. You know that, right?”</p><p>Mickey flips him off, and Ian doesn’t miss the way he smiles around his fork.</p><p>When they’re done, Ian expects for them to fuck. He expects to fuck, watch a movie, and go to bed, as per usual.</p><p>“Hey,” Mickey says after they’ve put their shit in the trash and grabbed drinks--a beer for Mickey and a Cherry Coke for Ian. “Wanna play?” He nods toward the TV.</p><p>“Pretty sure you’ll kick my ass at your <i>Demon’s Souls</i> thing.”</p><p>“Pretty sure I’ll kick your ass no matter what. But no.” Mickey scurries over to the couch and picks up the controller.</p><p>Ian plops down beside him and sips his pop while he watches Mickey scroll through the games he has downloaded to his PS5. And he can’t help but laugh when Mickey lands on a <i>Sonic the Hedgehog</i> racing game.</p><p>“Are you serious?” Ian asks, chuckling around the lip of his bottle.</p><p>“Ya wanna?”</p><p>“Gonna slaughter you. Racing shit I can actually do.”</p><p>“Mmhm. We’ll see about that, tough guy.” Mickey hands Ian a second controller.</p><p>Ian doesn’t know what to think about Mickey Milkovich, really. He thinks he’s a lot of things--things he likes, things he’s not sure about, things he wants to gather against his chest and cling to for dear life.</p><p>He’s got demons. Ian does, too. And that’s fine. That’s a part of being human, and if there’s one thing he knows for sure, it’s that Mickey Milkovich, MICK MILK, celebrity multi-millionaire, is human.</p><p>He’s human, and he’s beautiful, and he’s not a siren and yet Ian still thinks he’s running a serious risk of being lured in by his mythical ways. He looks at him while they play, watches him bite his lip and grin so bright and listens to him curse and complain when Ian manages to overtake him in a race.</p><p>He thinks about the fact that they could be having sex right now--probably should be according to the rules of their relationship--but they’re not. They’re playing <i>Sonic the Hedgehog</i> and sucker-punching each other in the arm when they lose, and Ian thinks he might just be having more fun than he’s had in years.</p><p>“You suck, you suck, you suck!” Ian yells when Mickey beats him in the final heat, swooping in last second to capture the win.</p><p>“I <i>actually</i> fuckin’ murdered your ass, so no.”</p><p>“Bitch.”</p><p>“Asshole.”</p><p>Ian elbows Mickey--hard--and Mickey elbows him back.</p><p>Pretty soon, they’re practically wrestling on the couch, swearing at each other but clearly holding back laughs.</p><p>And that could turn into sex, too, but it doesn’t. It turns into Mickey shoving off of Ian and saying, “Alright. Round two. Prepare to get pounded, Gallagher.”</p><p>“Dirty.”</p><p>“Fuck you. Get ready.”</p><p>And maybe it’ll turn to sex later. It probably will. They’ll play round two and Ian’ll win, and he’ll gloat, and Mickey’ll tackle him on the couch and they’ll fuck.</p><p>And then they’ll go upstairs and fuck again, and Ian won’t need the pajamas he packed because they’ll fall asleep naked.</p><p>They’ll be beside each other but not touching, just two men snuggled down under the covers on their own sides of the bed. </p><p>By morning, though, they’ll be a little closer.</p><p>They’ll be close enough that when Ian wakes and rolls over onto his side, he’ll stare at him, think about how beautiful he is, how calm and sweet and peaceful he is in sleep. </p><p>He’ll be tempted to kiss him.</p><p>He won’t.</p><p>He will one day, but not this time. </p><p>Not yet.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Some fun facts about Chapter 4:<br/>-A million thank yous to figallagher on Tumblr for the <a href="https://figallagher.tumblr.com/post/637902649351602176/manip-cooperative-gameplay-by-gallavichy">coolest</a> <a href="https://figallagher.tumblr.com/post/637902792741257216/mick-milks-ad-from-cooperative-gameplay-by">manips</a>. Incredible. Check them out! Also, if you've read LRPD, check out their <a href="https://figallagher.tumblr.com/post/639704323471900672/kestrel-app-from-gallavichys-like-real-people-do">kestrel app manip</a> which I can't get over. &lt;333</p><p>-Also thank you SO MUCH to adelethelibertini on Tumblr for the <a href="https://adelethelibertini.tumblr.com/post/638321790457970688/mickey-milkovich-from-the-amazing-cooperative">beautiful art</a> of my boy Mickey. Look at him! So much talent! I adore it! &lt;333</p><p>-Song title taken from Eagles of Death Metal's "I Want You So Hard." Mickey isn't actually bad news. He's the best news in the world.</p><p>-Mickey wears a medium in graphic T-shirts but often buys an XL because he likes to be comfy at home. Also, this Mickey is a boxer-briefs guy, while Ian tends to wear boxer shorts.</p><p>-When they're together, with the exception of a few movies on premium cable, Ian and Mickey almost exclusively watch Freeform and Cartoon Network. </p><p>-Mickey listens to pretty much everything, as long as it's good. He tends to gravitate toward both classic and contemporary rock and metal, but he also listens to indie pop, Top 40 stuff, and hip hop.</p><p>-Click <a href="https://gallavichy.tumblr.com/post/634892463411200000/click-here-to-view-the-cooperative">here</a> for the fic playlist, which will be updated for each chapter.</p><p> </p><p>Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed! ♥️</p><p> </p><p><i>In the next chapter...</i> it's Christmastime, and Ian and Mickey grow closer as they learn more about each other's personal lives.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Spinning on that Dizzy Edge</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Ian really shouldn’t go anywhere with him. It’s Christmas Eve. He should be with his family, watching <i>Home Alone</i> and eating Debbie’s snickerdoodles. He should wake up at seven and be there for the opening of the modest gifts they’d been able to buy or make each other with whatever they could scrape together. He should be there for banana pancakes and kitchen table arguments.</p><p>“Uh, yeah,” he finally answers with a shrug. “Cool.”</p><p>Fuck it. Merry Christmas to him.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><b>Content Warnings:</b> vague allusions to past child abuse; though there's not a very heavy content warning at all for this chapter, I do want to forewarn that in future chapters, there will be much less veiled references, as this is very much a story in part about surviving horrible people and the complicated feelings that can arise from that. I'll be sure to provide more specific warnings on those particular chapters so that everyone can keep themselves safe.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“<i>Waaaassup</i>.” Mickey reaches off camera and flips a switch, illuminating a simple string of red, green, and gold Christmas lights lining the wall behind him.</p><p>“Merry Christmas or whatever,” he intones, voice bored like he’d rather be eating nails. “Welcome to <i>Fright Night</i>, the most festive motherfuckin’ livestream in existence.”</p><p>He takes a distracted sip of his coffee from a red <i>Nightmare Hour</i> mug and fiddles with something on his computer. “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xrNKF7G7DRw">Christmas Time (Don’t Let the Bells End)</a>” by The Darkness starts up low in the background, the twang of the electric guitar slipping in beneath his words as he complains, “I can’t tell you how much I fuckin’ hate this holiday shit, so.” </p><p>Mickey shrugs, sets down his mug, and stretches like he’s working the kinks out of his gaming arms. He’s wearing <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/4c2eb5dfa5569978171e26e9922ec24d/da67387bf3540c1d-0c/s1280x1920/51d493f3d42b496520d47df0c4b5e5945e17d760.jpg">a black sweatshirt</a> with the image of a pentagram overlaid with Rudolph’s head, <i>HAIL SANTA</i> forming a circle around it. He’s also got on a red bandana folded into a thin headband, causing his fluffy hair on top to flop over, and he’d look a little like he was trying to join an 80s hair band if he just had the length and volume. </p><p>The image of him playing around with the bandana in front of the mirror, thinking he looks cool, makes a tiny surge of warmth bubble in Ian’s chest.</p><p>It’s Monday night, five days before Christmas, and he’s tuning in to Mickey’s livestream for the first time in a while. Mickey’d advertised it on his socials as <i>A Special Christmas Edition</i>, and aside from the fact that Ian had sort of wanted to see Mickey--even though it’s only been three days since they last had sex--he’d been curious as to what a <i>Christmas Edition</i> of MILK MILK looked like.</p><p>Turns out: not much new. He’s got his little string of Christmas lights going, his rock Christmas playlist, and his Steven Rhodes sweatshirt, but everything else seems to be business as usual.</p><p>Mickey squints at the chat, and Ian swipes over to skim through some of the messages, which range from <i>ok axl rose</i> 👏😍 to <i>merry christmas, mick!</i> 🎄🎄 to <i>If u hate it why r u doing a Xmas stream</i>.</p><p>“Why does anybody do anything?” Mickey asks, a little smirk creeping onto his lips, and not for the first time, it’s suddenly so obvious to Ian how much he loves this. He wonders if other people see it, too--that Mickey adores his Let’s Plays and his livestreams and his pretending to hate literally everything.</p><p>It’s not an act, really, but it somehow still is. Mickey’s every bit as grumpy and abrasive in person as he is on camera, but there’s no chance in hell he’s not having the time of his life right now, biting back a little smile when he reads a series of silly messages in the chat and murmurs, “Buncha weird motherfuckers” before starting up his game of the night.</p><p>It’s some sort of low-budget, survival horror Krampus thing, and Ian settles in, that warmth still bubbling in his chest, to watch Mickey and his stupid bandana and that sweet upturn of his lips.</p><p>---</p><p>Mickey had still been asleep when Ian left after their second night together last week. He’d climbed out of bed, pulled on his clothes, and before leaving, had grabbed the complimentary hotel notepad and pen resting on the nightstand. With a smirk, he’d written:</p><p><i>Bring your PS5 again next time so I can keep kicking your ass!<br/>
-Ian (iang_insta btw, hint hint)</i> </p><p>Next time. A given. </p><p>Yeah, it felt good, huh, the idea sitting well and realistic in Ian’s mind. They’ve got something going, don’t they?</p><p>He’d felt a shift after their argument--this new understanding growing between them that sure, okay, Ian can stop being so pushy about Mickey sharing and Mickey can stop being all Fort Knox about his life. It’s perfectly fine that they hang out <i>before</i> they fuck, and it’s not the end of the goddamned world if sex between them starts with a degree of foreplay. They’re not <i>dating</i>. Nobody’s got marriage on their mind. They can be friends.</p><p>But though Ian had felt that shift into friendship territory, it’s been a few days since, and they haven’t made moves to contact each other in any way like friends maybe would. Ian’s continuing to hold back on his Twitter interactions, keeping his account private, if only because he doesn’t want to make Mickey feel weird about it and if only because he doesn’t want to make the stans suspicious. </p><p>Nobody’s followed the other on Instagram, and nobody’s sent a text. Ian had sort of hoped Mickey would contact him in response to the teasing note he’d left on the nightstand, but that hasn’t happened, either.</p><p>It’s fine. Maybe he hadn’t seen it. Maybe he hadn’t thought it warranted a response. It was just a silly little thing, after all.</p><p>---</p><p>After the first half of the livestream, Ian swipes out of Twitch while Mickey’s starting up his holiday version of a break playlist, beginning with a Korn cover of <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8HmsIkzzEsU">a song</a> from <i>The Nightmare Before Christmas</i>.</p><p>He heads over to Instagram, opens his DMs, and taps his message thread with Mickey.</p><p>It’s been three days since they’ve seen each other, and they’re friends, maybe. At least Ian considers Mickey his friend. At least he <i>wants</i> them to be friends. And it’s completely normal for friends--with or without benefits--to send each other occasional messages.</p><p>Ian’s nervous, his thumbs twitching, but steeling himself, he types and sends Mickey a DM, refusing to allow even a brief moment to reconsider.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian Gallagher:</b> Please explain the bandana 😎</p><p>------------------------</p><p>After taking a second to reflect, he sends another.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian Gallagher:</b> Not a criticism. I like it. Just...why? </p><p>------------------------</p><p>He waits for a few minutes--taps over to Mickey’s profile and looks at his most recent post. It’s a series of pictures of what is apparently his new gaming computer, the caption reading, <i>gonna try recording more pc stuff in the new year. comment your suggestions below and i might check ‘em out.</i> 🤘</p><p>Ian aimlessly scrolls the comments, biding his time, then heads back over to their message thread to check if Mickey’s read the DMs.</p><p>Nope.</p><p>In fact, it doesn’t show up as <i>Seen</i> until over two hours later when the livestream is over, and even then, Mickey doesn’t reply.</p><p><i>Fuck you, too</i> 😎 Ian wants to message him. Instead, he takes a shower and gets ready for bed.</p><p>Whatever. Mickey doesn’t owe him anything, and the messages were probably stupid anyway.</p><p>---<br/>
---</p><p>Ian spends the next three days working at Patsy’s and half-heartedly job hunting in-between. </p><p>It feels futile. It feels like he absolutely <i>has</i> to have some sense of mobility in his life--can’t stay in his current fucking dead-end, soul-sucking existence--but every move he makes toward something else seems like a move sideways rather than up. One random job to the next, nothing giving him a sense of fulfillment or purpose. </p><p>The problem is that he has no idea what he even <i>wants</i> anymore. He’d spent so many years of his adolescence building toward a specific end goal--West Point, hot cadet boyfriend, military, officer--that now that he knows it’s impossible for him to achieve even one of those things, it feels like his entire plan for his life has been ripped out from under him. </p><p>Where does he even go from here? He’s been thinking about testing for his GED, but then what? He’s not likely to get a scholarship for college, and even if he were to swing money to cover some classes at Malcolm X, what would he take? </p><p>When he was a kid, he used to be able to close his eyes at night and imagine with perfect clarity his future. He could watch the years pass by, could foresee growing up and getting out. Making something of himself. Having a job he enjoyed. A home. A family to provide for. </p><p>Now when he closes his eyes, he sees nothing. He doesn’t even know where to begin. </p><p>He’s felt like this for nearly two years, but he’s still not used to it. The rug’s been pulled out from under him, and he’s still lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling.</p><p>---</p><p>The paper had listings for a laundromat attendant and a waiter at a gourmet pizza restaurant. Neither of them pay much, but they’re something. At least at the laundromat he could study for his GED test, and at the pizza joint there’s free pies to bring home. </p><p>Upon checking them out on Tuesday, he finds that both businesses are no longer hiring. </p><p>Fine.</p><p>On Wednesday, he meets with a frazzled woman at a coffee shop who needs someone to drive her mother to her appointments and do basic yard and house upkeep five days a week. The pay is fucking great--double his weekly salary at Patsy’s and far fewer hours--and the woman, Rhonda, tells him her mother is still relatively mobile and requires no help moving around or making meals. She just needs the company and security of having someone at home while her daughter’s at work.</p><p>Ian’s talked himself into being gung-ho about hanging out with an old lady 40 hours a week. He’d do the laundry, get the mail, mow the lawn, clear leaves from the gutters, and maybe read a book while she watches <i>The Price is Right</i>. He definitely wouldn’t want to do it forever, but if he can get paid $20 an hour for something so simple, he’ll take it. </p><p>Rhonda’s a little quirky but nice, and she seems to like him. She has a notepad in front of her, and Ian gives her his contact information. They talk for nearly forty-five minutes, going over hours and some of the particulars of her mom’s medical appointments, and Ian puts on his best attitude, being as friendly and charming as he can, really going for gold. </p><p>That’s when Rhonda says, patting Ian’s hand, “We’ve gotta do all the formalities, y’know--background check, mental health assessment, that kinda thing--but you seem like such a nice young man, and I think Mom’ll love you.”</p><p>His heart falls into his gut.</p><p>Ian’s face goes lax and his muscles turn limp like noodles. Sighing, attitude doing a complete 180, he makes his excuses, says he doesn’t think it’s the right fit after all, and leaves, cheeks hot.</p><p>It’s fine, though. </p><p>Whatever. </p><p>Old people creep him out sometimes.</p><p>---</p><p>On the 23rd, Ian checks out Pádraic Shenanigan’s, an irreverent Irish restaurant and entertainment venue that’s hiring for their February 2021 opening. It’s touristy as shit and located in the heart of Michigan Avenue, but the pay’s decent, and well, he at least looks the part.</p><p>The majority of the restaurant’s still under construction, so Ian meets with management at a plastic-covered booth up front. It’s a pair of late-twenties women--Billie and Gem--who look like they play ukuleles and spend time at hookah bars.</p><p>They go crazy over his hair as if it’s rare to find an Irish redhead in Chicago. Billie declares him <i>perfect for the crew</i>, and then after discussing their vision for the restaurant--traditional Irish cuisine plus American bar food, trivia nights, Irish dancing, and folk bands--and where they see Ian fitting in, they try to hire him on the spot.</p><p>“Which d’ya want?” Gem asks, pulling out two green T-shirts with <i>Shenanigan’s</i> on the front. The back of each sports a different phrase: <i>Zero Lucks Given</i> and <i>Irish I Were Drunk</i>. Ian wants to die a little inside but keeps his options open, taking the latter shirt and giving them his contact information and email address so they can send him a link to the digital employment paperwork.</p><p>He’ll complete it, if only because he’ll have until late January to back out and it’ll be something to fall back on if he can’t get anything better. </p><p>Billie gives him a homemade mint cookie from a Tupperware container before he leaves, and whatever. The management’s nice. He munches it on his way to the L, carrying his T-shirt in a little bundle beneath his arm.</p><p>---</p><p>At home that night, he checks his DMs--opens up his and Mickey’s message thread and stares unhappily at the <i>Seen</i>. He’s wearing the <i>Irish I Were Drunk</i> shirt with his boxers, and he smiles, thinking Mickey would find the whole thing stupid but amusing.</p><p>Biting his lip, he types, <i>Got sorta hired by an Irish restaurant today. They basically want me to be their mascot</i> 🍀. He opens up the camera app and takes several pictures of himself before settling on one that doesn’t look entirely terrible.</p><p>He swipes back over to Instagram and is about to send the message and the picture when--last second--he gives himself a shake and erases everything he’s typed.</p><p>There are a few reasons why Ian decides not to DM Mickey, even though it’d be really fucking nice to talk to someone right now. All reasons pale in comparison to the overwhelming fear he has that he once more won’t receive a reply.</p><p>Idly, he hopes what happened the week before didn’t somehow make things weird for Mickey. After all, though quickly and vaguely, he’d told Ian some pretty heavy shit about his personal life. Shit almost no one knows, apparently. Poverty. Homophobia. Drugs. Cancer. </p><p>Things had seemed okay afterward, some of the tension dissipating; they’d finished their dinner, had fucked before bed, and then they’d spent the next night gaming, wrestling, and having fun, carefree sex. </p><p>But Ian knows as well as he knows anything that thinking about shit in a different environment, removed from the situation, can make you feel differently about it. Who’s to say Mickey didn’t fly back to LA and immediately regret telling Ian about his dad?</p><p>It’s two days before Christmas. If Mickey came to Chicago for Thanksgiving, he’s sure as hell going to visit again for Christmas, right? And if he’s visiting for Christmas, why hasn’t he contacted Ian about hooking up while he’s in the area?</p><p>Not that he has to contact him. Not that they have to meet up. It’s cool if he doesn’t--if they don’t. It’s only been a week since last time, after all.</p><p>But considering the sheer amount of times they’ve hooked up in the past couple months, it seems odd that they wouldn’t do it again when he’s in town for Christmas. <i>If</i> he’s in town.</p><p>Ian checks Mo’s Instagram account and sees she’s in the UK right now. No Mickey stories to see, revealing his whereabouts. He searches up Mandy’s page, but she hasn’t posted anything in over a week, her last post being a picture of her holding a glass of wine with the caption, <i>winter break wine weekend</i> 🍷. She’s pinned Mickey’s comment, <i>basic bitch</i>, and it has 419 likes.</p><p>Ian closes out of Instagram. He feels like a giant weirdo. It’s absolutely none of his business where Mickey’s spending Christmas, and it’s even less his business who he sees while he’s there.</p><p>He needs to get a fucking grip.</p><p>---<br/>
---</p><p>Ian hasn’t been to a single club, gay or otherwise, since his diagnosis.</p><p>It really has less to do with bad memories, though there <i>are</i> those, and more to do with complete lack of desire. In his mind, clubs are about dancing and fun, sure, but they’re also about sex, and for a while, sex was weird for him.</p><p>At first, his meds gave him limp dick and low libido. Then, once he’d stayed on them long enough to balance out, he’d stuck to Grindr hookups for their efficiency, the effort required to get dressed up, dance, and find someone on the dance floor far too much and not worth the trouble for a mediocre bathroom blowjob.</p><p>The fact that he finds himself in a club on Christmas Eve feels ironic. It’s the night most people are with their families and friends, a night Ian--in not only his current state of being but in <i>any</i> state of being--would absolutely be at home, sharing a blunt with Lip on the porch and then watching Christmas movies with the kids while Debbie baked cookies and Fiona drank wine with V in the kitchen.</p><p>But he’d seen a story post of his old bartender friend Ryder from The Fairy Tail. He’d recently gotten a job at Castles, a new, upscale Boystown club, and he’d advertised how he’d be slinging drinks in the bar until midnight while the club had its Silver and Gold holiday dance party.</p><p>It’s end of year, and the business is new. Ian’s got a connection, and he has experience--albeit not strictly legal experience--tending bar. The tips at The Fairy Tale were incredible--enough that if he pocketed what he did back then on a steady basis, he’d be making a killing--and Ian can only imagine that the tips at Castles will be even better.</p><p>He tells Fiona he’s going to go see about a job and heads out, planning to only be gone a couple hours at the most.</p><p>Castles is really a bar <i>and</i> club--one large building with two separate entrances, ensuring people who come just to get a drink don’t actually have to step foot in the club.</p><p>After showing his ID, Ian enters the bar area from the street. The room is beautiful, really, all clean, minimalistic partitions surrounding private booths, white marble surfaces, and twinkling white-gold Christmas lights striping loosely across the ceiling. </p><p>Despite the fact that it’s 8PM on Christmas Eve--or maybe <i>because of it</i>--it’s also crowded as fuck.</p><p>People are spilling in and out from the double-doors near the bathrooms, moving back and forth from the club to the bar, dressed in their flashy, silver-and-gold outfits like a pack of time travelers from the future. It’s a large room with enough private booths and tables to seat about 100 people and a long, wall-length bar requiring multiple bartenders on staff.</p><p>He spots Ryder almost instantly--a dayglow pale thirty-something with a bleached platinum pompadour and an eyebrow piercing. On theme for the night, he’s dressed in a reflective silver long-sleeved top and black leather pants, and with his glittery eyeshadow, he looks like an extra from <i>Velvet Goldmine</i>.</p><p>Ian always liked working with him at The Fairy Tail. He was safe. Older than the rest of the employees by at least ten years, the young dancers, Ian included, thought of him as a big brother. He wasn’t a tweaker, and he kept an eye on everyone, trying his best to make sure nobody got too fucked up. He also wasn’t afraid to jump the bar and get physical if he saw someone getting messed with. He didn’t always catch it, but he tried.</p><p>Castles is definitely an upgrade for him. As Ian walks over to the left side of the bar, where Ryder’s hunched over, talking animatedly to a girl in a gold bodysuit, he idly wonders if The Fairy Tail had eventually let him go--if he’d gotten too old or too aware or too chatty or all three.</p><p>Probably all three.</p><p>Ian finds an empty stool at the very end and climbs on. Though he doesn’t look at him just yet, Ryder senses a new customer and starts sliding down the bar toward him, checking on a few other people on his way down.</p><p>His face lights up when he spots him.</p><p>“Ian, holy shit!” He leans over the bar and gives Ian a one-armed hug around the neck. He smells pleasant, like limes and spicy cologne, and Ian smiles when he pulls away, asking him how he’s doing.</p><p>They make casual conversation for a minute before Ryder asks, “What’re you doin’ here? Sorry, but you can’t drink, man. We’re all above board; management’s serious as shit.”</p><p>“Yeah, I’m not drinkin’ much right now, anyway.” Ian bites his lip and looks around, eyes catching on the spotless bar, the little row of framed certificates mounted on the wall--health and safety, occupancy limits, mixology certificates. “Was just seein’ if you could maybe help hook me up with a job. Any openings?”</p><p>Ryder looks incredulous. “You wanna dance again?”</p><p>Ian presses his lips together. “Yeaaah, kinda over that for the time being.” He shrugs, pulling a hopeful look. “Anything behind the bar? Here or in the club. Tips are probably awesome.”</p><p>“Tips are great.”</p><p>There’s silence between them for a moment, the void filled with the pleasant murmurs of patrons chatting happily and the soft beat of Christmas music.</p><p>Ian raises an eyebrow.</p><p>“Here’s the thing,” Ryder says, taking a step back and pointing a finger toward one of the mixology certificates on the wall. When Ian squints, he can see that it reads <i>Ryder Reinhold</i>. “I had to get like, certified and shit for this. Had to take classes. They do things different here, y’know. No workin’ your way up to the bar, no blowin’ the manager to get ahead, none of that shit.” He grabs up a glass, which he proceeds to fill with ice cubes and Coke.</p><p>When offered, Ian takes the drink with a nod of thanks. “So you’re sayin’ this is like a legit career?”</p><p>“I mean, I get benefits and stuff.” He pauses, blue eyes wandering Ian’s face and softening a fraction. His lips quirk like he’s just thought of something sad.</p><p>“But hey, I can hook you up with recs for classes and shit if you wanna get into bartending for real. Not sure they’d hire you here ‘til you’re 21, anyway, but ya never know.” He shrugs. “Or, y’know, you can check somewhere else. Lots of other places’ll teach ya on the job.”</p><p>Something about the entire conversation makes Ian’s stomach hurt. It makes him feel like a dumb little boy who doesn’t know shit about the world. Maybe it’s because Ryder’s older, or maybe it’s because Ian’d thought he could just stroll in and get a job like this. </p><p>Whatever. Fuck it.</p><p>He thanks Ryder and drinks his Coke, trying to breathe slowly. Ryder taps twice on the bar in front of him in kind acknowledgement and then wanders off to help other people.</p><p>---</p><p>When he’s done with his drink, Ian checks the time. 8:33. He’s only been gone an hour, and there’s plenty of time for cookies and 25 Days of Christmas on the Gallaghers’ stolen cable.</p><p>He blows out a breath and backs off the stool, and he’s just digging in his pocket for a tip to leave when he hears from down on the other side of the bar, cutting with its sharpness, “Can I please get a fuckin’ drink while you’re still open?”</p><p>Wait, what? </p><p>No fucking way!</p><p>Ian sits back down, leans over, and peers down the bar.</p><p>All the way at the opposite end--a good twenty feet away from him--is a guy in a black bomber jacket and beanie. </p><p>Mickey fucking Milkovich.</p><p>He’s got his elbows to the bartop, hands clasped in front of him, and Ian sees he’s wearing black fingerless gloves.</p><p>Shit.</p><p>He climbs once more off the stool, scrambles again for a tip to leave, and then makes his way across the room. </p><p>His heart’s in his throat. It shouldn’t be--he’s had this guy’s dick in his mouth--but it is, all the same.</p><p>There’s an empty seat beside Mickey, and though Ian knows in his head Mickey’s going to hate everything he’s about to do, he takes the seat and asks, voice low and serious, “Come here often?”</p><p>Mickey jumps like he’s been poked with a pitchfork and, lightning fast, whips his head around. “<i>Jesus</i>, what the fuck?”</p><p>Ian laughs in three little puffs out his nose, lips pulling into a smile. “Hey.”</p><p>“The fuck you doin’ here?” </p><p>Mickey looks perturbed as all hell--more than usual, his brows pulled together and mouth in a scowl. A bartender in a gold suit sets a foamy pint in front of him. “And why the fuck’s everybody look like they’re from outer space?”</p><p>“Silver and Gold night.”</p><p>“Whatever the fuck that is.” Mickey drinks his beer in gulps--in <i>I need to get drunk</i> gulps--and Ian watches him, eyes going soft.</p><p>He peers at his fingers curled around the glass--sees his thumb has not even the tiniest sliver of black polish on it like normal. Ian would bet money that under his hat, his earrings are out.</p><p>“Stop fuckin’ starin’ at me,” Mickey says after downing half the pint. He sounds tired. Weary from existing.</p><p>Ian swallows. “You okay?”</p><p>Mickey sighs. Closes his eyes for a moment. “Kinda came here so I wouldn’t see anybody I know.”</p><p>“Well, shit.” Ian sounds more offended than he intends. He gets it. It’s the holidays. Life sucks. </p><p>“No offense, man.”</p><p>“Want me to leave you alone?”</p><p>Mickey looks at him for a minute. Glances away. Picks up his beer and takes a slower, more measured sip. “Fuck. I dunno. It’s whatever, man.”</p><p>He looks so completely unhappy with this particular moment in his life that Ian sort of wants to get up and walk away. Instead, he leans an elbow on the bar and watches the wrinkle between Mickey’s eyebrows and the downturn of his lips. After a moment, he turns away, eyes wandering over the liquor bottles lining the wall behind the bar, waiting for something. Anything.</p><p>The bartender in the gold suit returns and tells Ian he needs to get a drink or let someone else have his seat. He has to piss like a racehorse, but he gets another Coke anyway and sips it while occasionally cutting his eyes back toward Mickey, who seems content to sit in angry silence.</p><p>Ian <i>hmm</i>s, and Mickey glances his way. “What?”</p><p>“Looks like you aren’t having a merry Christmas.”</p><p>“Fuck off.”</p><p>He <i>does</i> smile a little, though, the corner of his mouth tilting upward just slightly around the lip of his beer. It’s not enough to reveal happiness at Ian’s presence but enough to prove he’s at least moderately okay with it. Ian smirks at him, but Mickey doesn’t look over enough to catch it.</p><p>They finish their drinks in silence. Mickey orders another, and Ian climbs off the stool and heads to the bathroom, bladder full to the point of pain.</p><p>On his way back out, Ryder catches him and hands him a paper on which he’s scribbled a list of classes he took. He talks him through his process of leaving The Fairy Tail, looking for something better, etcetera, etcetera, basically <i>you poor, lost little thing</i>. What-the-fuck-ever.</p><p>“I can put in a good word for you,” he says, and it’s heartfelt and yet somehow empty, a kind lie, and Ian knows he’s just feeling sorry for him. </p><p>It’s fine. It’s good. Ian thanks him and pockets the paper and knows he’ll just throw it away the next chance he gets.</p><p>He fucking hates this.</p><p>He heads back over to the other end of the bar, and to his surprise--or <i>not</i>, really--Mickey’s gone. His second empty pint glass is still on the bartop along with a crisp fifty dollar bill.</p><p>When the bartender in the gold suit comes over to clean up, Ian asks his whereabouts, and the man nods toward the door to the street. “Sorry,” he murmurs, sympathetic. <i>You poor, lost little thing</i>. “He paid your tab, though, so you got a free pop out of it.”</p><p>Ian sighs, thanks him, and leaves out the door Mickey had gone out of, hoping he can still catch him.</p><p>---</p><p>Turns out, he’s just outside, backed into a little alcove, smoking. It’s cold as shit--<i>way</i> too fucking cold to just be in a simple bomber jacket and gloves with exposed fingertips. Dumbass.</p><p>Hot, angry dumbass.</p><p>Ian wanders a bit, taking out his phone. Fidgeting. He doesn’t know what to do here. Was Mickey waiting on him or did Ian just catch him before his ride came?</p><p>Probably the latter. Why the hell would Mickey have peaced out while Ian was in the bathroom if he’d wanted to hang out with him? Plus, he’s only said like, four sentences to him all night. Not encouraging.</p><p>Is this weird? Is Ian being weird?</p><p>Are they not friends, though, and don’t friends dispense of the <i>pretending you don’t exist right now because I’m unsure about you</i> thing?</p><p>Ian shoves his phone back in his pocket and slips his hands into the front pockets of his coat. He hadn’t worn gloves, so he guesses Mickey’s bullshit fingerless ones are actually better than what he’s got. He bites his lip and steps to the curb, deliberating. </p><p>Should he <i>say</i> something? Probably. Fuck, this is stupid.</p><p>He turns toward Mickey, who’s crushing the remainder of his cigarette against the sidewalk with the toe of his black Timberland boot.</p><p>Mickey doesn’t look up at him, but he must know Ian’s glancing his way. </p><p>“You’re not gonna leave me alone, are you?” he asks, and he sounds grumpy but resigned in a way that gives Ian hope.</p><p>Hope about what, he doesn’t know. He shrugs and moves over toward Mickey. “Guess not.”</p><p>Finally, Mickey looks at him. The tip of his nose and his cheeks are growing pink with the cold, and he appears sweet in a way that completely belies his tone of voice when he says, “Fuckin’ stalker.”</p><p>His eyebrows twitch, and Ian can’t help but smile. </p><p>“That okay?” he asks, stepping even closer.</p><p>Mickey rolls his eyes. “Whatever.” He takes a deep breath, then licks his bottom lip, eyes wandering. “Got a hotel room.” He doesn’t sound happy about it, voice hard in a way that sounds like he’s annoyed at having to utter the words.</p><p>Ian really shouldn’t go anywhere with him. It’s Christmas Eve. He should be with his family, watching <i>Home Alone</i> and eating Debbie’s snickerdoodles. He should wake up at seven and be there for the opening of the modest gifts they’d been able to buy or make each other with whatever they could scrape together. He should be there for banana pancakes and kitchen table arguments.</p><p>“Uh, yeah,” he finally answers with a shrug. “Cool.”</p><p>Fuck it. Merry Christmas to him.</p><p>---</p><p>Mickey’s apparently already ordered an Uber Black, and it occurs to Ian as he sees a fucking Jag pull up to the curb that it’s totally possible Mickey <i>was</i> actually planning to leave Ian hanging at the bar.</p><p>Dick. Maybe he’ll ask him later after he’s got him soft and happy from sex. </p><p>Ian blows out a breath and follows Mickey into the backseat of the car.</p><p>---</p><p>Mickey’d been able to score the exact same <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/a05b3b538a301bae4f514bc3f28ff916/6ee867ba1398dfa4-67/s1280x1920/ba74c6a6df21253f1f14d2699e7f4debe1417fa1.jpg">corner room</a> he’d had a couple months ago with the couch that probably still lights up under a blacklight.</p><p>Judging by the state of the room--the beer cans, the wrapper-filled candy tray, the pair of underwear on the floor Mickey quickly tosses into his open suitcase--it’s at least his second night here. The TV’s on, playing <i>Home Alone</i> on 25 Days of Christmas, and the room carries a faint scent of cigarettes.</p><p>There’s a bottle of Jameson on the coffee table, and before Ian even has a chance to take off his coat, Mickey’s already headed toward it, snatching it up along with a water glass that still has the dregs of whiskey from earlier in the day.</p><p>He pours himself way too much and sits, still in his bomber and fingerless gloves, in the same chair he’d been in when he’d eaten lobster spaghetti and asked Ian if he actually knew anything about gaming.</p><p>Ian stares at him awkwardly, coat half-off.</p><p>Mickey takes a gulp large enough for him to wince at the burn as he swallows. </p><p>“We gonna fuck?” he asks then, gruff, sounding bored.</p><p>Ian swallows, pulls his coat all the way off, and folds it over his arm, hugging it to himself. “Yeah?”</p><p>Mickey takes a slower drink this time, then lifts his foot up to begin unlacing his boot.</p><p>He’s acting weird as fuck--cold in a way he hasn’t been in a while, even the night he had Ian go wait by the elevator while he checked in. Mickey hadn’t talked to him at all in the Uber, and he was equally silent on the way up to the room. Ian had assumed it’d just been for the sake of hiding his identity and possible associations with a guy, but now he’s not so sure.</p><p>He’s scowling. He’s mean and tired. When Ian trudges around, looking for a place to put his coat, Mickey grumbles, “Hurry it the fuck up. Get your shit off.”</p><p>He puts down his drink and stands, and together, the two of them strip. </p><p>---</p><p>Once naked, Mickey goes to his suitcase and pulls out the same squished box of Trojan Bareskins and the same tube of Astroglide. He tosses both carelessly onto the bed and crawls on, pausing on all fours with his forehead almost touching the headboard.</p><p>He’s breathing hard--fast like he’s panicking. Ian stands at the edge of the bed, watching his back rise and fall, scanning the slightly uneven line of his ribs and the thin, scratch-like scars on his pale skin. Mickey fists the comforter under his hands, then releases--fists, then releases, like he’s waiting for something.</p><p>“Will you get the fuck on me?” he grouses, voice sharp like broken glass.</p><p>Ian gets a knee on the bed and then slowly climbs up, crawling until he’s just behind Mickey’s body. He grabs the lube in one hand and with the other, touches gently at Mickey’s fuzzy lower back, then slides around to stroke up his side.</p><p>Mickey breathes out in a great huff--frustrated for God knows what reason--so Ian pulls his hand away and sets in to prep him.</p><p>He’s tight from holding himself so tense and is inadvertently clenching in a way that makes it hard for Ian to even get a single finger in. Ian leans in and kisses at his spine, trying to get him to loosen up, but all Mickey does is tell him to stop treating him “like a fuckin’ virgin.”</p><p>“I don’t wanna hurt you,” Ian says, removing his single finger and, despite his gut feeling, attempting to gently work in two.</p><p>Mickey drops his head to the pillows and takes a series of deep breaths like he’s trying to force himself to relax. Ian feels him squeeze and then loosen around his fingers, and after a couple minutes, it becomes enough that he thinks he can get his dick in.</p><p>But when he tries to slide in a minute later after tugging on a condom with slippery fingers, something doesn’t feel right. Mickey clenches too much, and he’s got his head lowered, face pressed to the pillows like he’s hiding. Ian can only get in a couple inches without being forceful, and rubbing soothingly at Mickey’s sides does nothing but make the man’s arms shake.</p><p><i>What’s wrong?</i> Ian wants to ask, skimming his hands from Mickey’s ribs to his belly, wanting to pull out but wanting to give him comfort somehow, too, in what way he doesn’t know. He doesn’t even know the why--only knows that Mickey’s breathing in little puffs and when Ian gently drags his hand downward, he finds he’s barely hard.</p><p>“Hey, hey, hey,” Ian whispers, pulling out and tugging away his hands before leaning backward and sitting on his heels. </p><p>He takes a moment to process--to watch Mickey continue to breathe in too-harsh little puffs--and then climbs off the bed to grab the tissue box.</p><p>“The fuck are you doing?” Ian hears from the bed as he removes the condom, snatches a Kleenex, and wipes off some residual lube on his dick. He brings two more back to the bed for Mickey’s lubey ass.</p><p>“Yeaaah, we’re not having sex right now, Mickey,” he says, standing by the foot.</p><p>And he’s expecting more of the same annoyed demands--<i>The fuck’s your problem? Get the fuck on me!</i></p><p>What he doesn’t at all expect is for Mickey to push up onto his knees with the speed of a shot and punch the headboard so hard Ian’s surprised it doesn’t crack, the wood bending enough with the force to smack the wall like Mickey’s nearly dislodged it from the bedframe. </p><p>He wips around then, grabs up a pillow like he’s about to throw it, fingers digging in, dimpling the fabric as if to rip, and yells, “<i>Then why the <b>fuck</b> did you come back with me?</i>”</p><p>He stares at Ian, breath hard, face red and eyes starting to tear up in a way that makes Ian want to hug him and that makes Mickey clearly hate himself. He crumples with the feeling, bending over until he’s folded in half and pressing his palms to his eyes, mouth a distressed grimace.</p><p>Ian watches him, heart hammering, as he makes a frustrated groaning sound, punches the mattress once, twice, and then shoves up into a fully seated position. He scoots until his back is against the headboard, pulls his knees to his chest, and presses his palms back to his eyes, holding them there.</p><p>The knuckles of his right hand are red and starting to puff up, and when he finally removes his palms a minute later with a face-twitch that’s clearly meant to get himself back in order, to assure himself and Ian that he’s <i>not fucking crying</i>, he begins to flex his fist over and over again, likely in pain.</p><p>Fuck. Ian would climb back up on the bed and wrap his arms around him if he didn’t think Mickey would pull a replay of the headboard on his face. </p><p>Instead, he takes a deep breath, puts on his boxers, and goes to get the ice bucket from where it sits, half-melted, atop the mini-fridge. </p><p>He keeps an eye on Mickey as he scoops out as many unmelted cubes as he can and then goes into the bathroom to create a makeshift ice pack out of his handful of ice and a plastic showercap. </p><p>What the fuck is he doing?</p><p>He scans the bathroom. It’s a mess--Mickey’s shit everywhere, his toiletry pouch emptied onto the counter and all his little personal items scattered about. His prescription pill bottle’s sitting there out in the open by a water glass. A bottle of Advil joins it, as well as some chewable antacids. </p><p>Ian blows out a breath, takes the Advil bottle, and shakes two into his palm before picking up the icepack and switching off the bathroom light.</p><p>Mickey’s swiping his face when he steps back into the room, the side of his hand dragging quickly--just once--across his eyes. Ian grabs Mickey’s boxer briefs from the floor and carries them with him to the bed, where he climbs up and sits down beside him.</p><p>Mickey sniffs, and it’s wet enough for Ian to know he would be crying if Ian weren’t here--for him to know tears are just waiting and that he’s probably swallowing back a lump in his throat. </p><p>Mickey doesn’t look at his face, and Ian doesn’t look back, but he hands him the little bundle of ice, the pills, and his underwear, and the other man takes all three without a word.</p><p>Ian leans back against the headboard and tilts his head up, face to the ceiling. He closes his eyes and breathes slowly to calm himself. </p><p>Fuck. </p><p>MIckey’s been an asshole. He’d fucking <i>screamed</i> at him. And Ian knows he should be angry, probably. He should be actively seeking an apology right now, or he should be pulling on his shit and leaving to be with his family on Christmas Eve.</p><p>But try as he might, all he feels is pain in his chest for the boy next to him. His heart hurts.</p><p>---</p><p>After a few silent minutes, the bed jiggles, and Ian casually tilts his head to see Mickey pulling on his underwear. </p><p>There’s a little gleaming bit of moisture at the corner of his eye, caught in his bottom lashes, and all Ian wants to do is scoop him up and hold him, kicking and screaming be damned.</p><p>He has a lot of questions. He could say plenty of things. But what he says right now is nothing. Not yet. He sits beside Mickey in silence, and for the next fifteen minutes, they watch the rest of <i>Home Alone</i>.</p><p>When the credits are rolling, without a word, Mickey gets up and goes to the bathroom for nearly ten full minutes, hand cupping the pills Ian had brought him. The water’s running freely, nothing to stop the flow like he’s only got it on for the noise, and it lasts and lasts for long enough that Ian worries for him.</p><p>Swallowing heavily, he gets up, tracks down his henley, and pulls it on but leaves his jeans off, instead picking them up off the floor, folding them, and setting them on the desk by the tissue box. </p><p>He’s not going anywhere tonight. </p><p>He texts Fiona--tells her something came up and he’ll see her in the morning--and then settles back down on the bed just as Mickey exits the bathroom.</p><p>He’s clearly been crying and then washed his face to try to hide it. His eyes are puffy, nose is red, and he keeps sniffing as he fumbles with a box of cigarettes on the nightstand like he doesn’t know it’s a dead giveaway.</p><p>But it’s fine. Ian won’t say anything. He lets Mickey think he doesn’t know and accepts the cigarette he shakily hands him as if it isn’t an apology.</p><p>The two of them sit together on the bed and smoke in silence.</p><p>Afterward, once Mickey’s gotten up, grabbed his previously-abandoned glass of whiskey, and has set in to sip it slowly while <i>Home Alone 2</i> plays on the TV, Ian hears him take a deep breath like he’s preparing to speak.</p><p>He tilts his head toward him.</p><p>Mickey sucks his teeth. Sniffs in an entirely snot-stuffed way that he <i>has</i> to know is obvious. And after another sip of his whiskey, says, so quietly Ian almost doesn’t hear it over the movie, “Sorry.”</p><p>Ian doesn’t tell him he shouldn’t apologize. He doesn’t shrug it off. He knows Mickey’s going through something, but he’d still been a mean asshole. </p><p>Instead, he nods at him--an acknowledgment--and Mickey darts his eyes in his direction just enough to catch it.</p><p>After a beat in which Ian thinks Mickey’s done, he surprises him by continuing, voice a little louder now, like he’s worked himself up to some degree of confidence.</p><p>“Didn’t wanna run into anybody tonight,” he says, pausing afterward to swipe the side of his index finger over his mouth. “‘s’why I went to that faggy alien place.”</p><p>Ian considers asking <i>why</i>, <i>what’s going on?</i> but Mickey continues before he can.</p><p>“Shit luck runnin’ into you, man.”</p><p>Without thinking, Ian tosses an arm over, smacking at him aimlessly, and Mickey looks at him so, so briefly, eyes shining in a way that tells him everything’s gonna be just fine.</p><p>“Castles is like, one of the only gay clubs open tonight,” Ian says, voice bright so as to push the conversation toward lighter things. “<i>Statistically</i>, it’s not the craziest thing in the world.”</p><p>Mickey huffs a little breath out his nose and then takes a sip of whiskey. After he swallows, he holds the glass out to Ian.</p><p>What the hell. He takes it--holds it thoughtfully and sips it for a few minutes before handing it back.</p><p>The whiskey settles hot in his belly, but it feels comforting, like warm stones on a tense back. He leans more comfortably against the headboard, reaching behind him to fluff up the pillows.</p><p>“Why weren’t you with your family?” Mickey asks. “Thought you <i>like</i> them and shit.” He says it like Ian’s weird for not hating his family, and well, maybe to Mickey he is.</p><p>He shrugs. “Tryin’ to get a job.”</p><p>Mickey hums. “You get one?”</p><p>“Nah.” He says it as if he wasn’t interested, after all--as if he hadn’t left his house at 7:30 on Christmas Eve to talk to someone he hadn’t seen since he was manic and coked off his ass, living in a crack den with Monica.</p><p>“Mm. Saw you talkin’ to that guy.”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>He’s expecting Mickey to continue with that train of thought, but he doesn’t. Ian tilts his head toward him and watches him spin the nearly-empty glass in his hands, eyes downcast and studying the amber liquid.</p><p>“Hey,” Ian says, voice soft, before pausing until Mickey looks at him. “Did you try to leave me at the bar?”</p><p>Mickey scoffs and turns his eyes toward the ceiling, mouth splitting into an unhappy smile. “As if I could, stalker motherfucker.”</p><p>“You were totally gonna leave me there.”</p><p>Mickey shrugs a shoulder, takes a shallow, slightly slurpy sip. “I dunno. Maybe.”</p><p>“Dick.”</p><p>“<i>Chh</i>.”</p><p>Ian fucking loves that sound, really. He elbows him, causing the whiskey to slosh a bit in the glass, and Mickey tilts his head back, downs the last couple centimeters, and flips him off as he swallows with a grimace.</p><p>There’s a loud <i>clink</i> when he sets the empty glass on the nightstand.</p><p>“Hey,” Ian says again, heart working its way into his throat. </p><p>Mickey makes a face at him--an exasperated <i>what?!</i> face, all raised brows and wide eyes.</p><p>It’s stupid, but there’s something in the quiet that tells Ian it might be okay to ask. And if it’s not, whatever. It’s fine. He really just wants Mickey to know he’s wondering about him. Thinking about what terrors might be going on in that head of his.</p><p>He wants him to know he cares.</p><p>Ian swallows. Steels himself.</p><p>“Did you see your family today?” he asks, voice quiet like a whisper, cotton-soft.</p><p>Mickey makes a gruff sound, like something’s stuck in his throat, and the warmth in Ian’s belly turns to lead. </p><p>Fuck. </p><p>He blows out a long, slow breath, eyes darting away from Mickey, who’s got a hand up, rubbing at his eyes with this thumb and middle finger. Irritated.</p><p>He considers apologizing, but Mickey cuts him off with a huff before climbing off the bed.</p><p>Ian watches him stand with his back turned for a minute, sloped shoulders tensed and little maroon boxer briefs slightly askew. And he’s never seen it before--hasn’t seen Mickey in exactly this way and in exactly this light, but due to his angle, the nightstand lamp hitting him just so, Ian can see a series of barely-there circular scars dotting the skin just along the very edge of his back by the crease of his armpit. About the size of a pencil eraser, they’re shiny and old enough to be silvery-pink. They’d look like nothing other than faint suck-marks or minor skin irritation if you didn’t know what you were looking at.</p><p>If you didn’t have your suspicions. If you didn’t know better.</p><p>Ian’s stomach hurts, and he hates himself for asking questions he shouldn’t ask. He follows Mickey with his eyes as he wanders across the room and, to Ian’s surprise, bypasses the Jameson bottle and instead grabs a couple waters from the mini-fridge.</p><p>He cracks one open, chugs half of it, then brings them both back to the bed, tossing the unopened one at Ian, who catches it just before it gets him in the dick.</p><p>“Fuckin’ hate holidays,” Mickey murmurs, setting his water bottle on the nightstand and trudging over to the luggage rack, where his messy suitcase is lying open. He digs around, pulls out an oversized <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/e94d2d498be43dbdc3e39d3c8da6d861/940efe496468050c-bd/s1280x1920/edeb6763ff3811b30213a12961891f337c165f64.jpg">Gorillaz shirt</a> and a pair of bleach-splattered black sweats that look like Ian’s laundry mistake and probably cost a fortune, and pulls them on before making his way back to the bed.</p><p>Ian quietly accepts it in answer to his question and thinks about the fact that Mickey’s choosing to sit beside him on the bed instead of in the armchair or on the couch.</p><p>He thinks about the fact that Mickey was planning to be all alone on Christmas Eve, just 90s movies and a bottle of Jameson to keep him company.</p><p>He thinks about how he was going to wake up by himself the next morning--no one to have breakfast with, to greet him, to tell him Merry Christmas.</p><p>Ian settles against the headboard, pillows cushioning his back, and drinks his water in silence.</p><p>---</p><p>The two of them watch the rest of <i>Home Alone 2</i> together, then order midnight room service cheesecake slices in three varieties that they set on the bed between them and eat with forks, watching <i>The Santa Clause</i>.</p><p>They don’t talk much, but it’s comfortable. By the time the credits are rolling, Ian turns to Mickey, about to ask if he should turn off the TV, only to find him asleep with his mouth open.</p><p>It’s unattractive and precious. Ian smiles at him softly just because he can and switches off the TV.</p><p>He climbs off the bed, throws away the disposable dessert containers, and goes to the bathroom to pee and wash his face. </p><p>When he returns, he switches off all the lights but the lamp on Mickey’s nightstand, pulls down the covers on his own side of the bed, and climbs in.</p><p>He watches Mickey for a minute, illuminated by the glow of the lamplight--still in a half-sitting position, his back and head against the headboard, arms crossed over his chest and legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles like he fell asleep thoroughly unimpressed. His mouth is closed now, but his head’s at a weird angle, chin lowered toward his chest.</p><p>Ian pushes up on an arm and reaches out, placing his hand on Mickey’s shoulder and giving him a gentle shake.</p><p>At that, Mickey merely grumbles like a kid being woken up by a parent, so Ian tries again.</p><p>That does it. Mickey jerks with a sharp intake of breath before settling, peering around the room and gathering his bearings.</p><p>He looks down at Ian and sighs, murmurs, “<i>Fuck</i>.”</p><p>With an obnoxiously loud yawn, he stretches and then climbs off the bed so he can adjust the pillows and pull down the covers. He switches off the lamp, casting the room in darkness, the only light the bluish glow of the city lights through the windows.</p><p>And it’s a strange sensation lying in the dark, feeling someone you’re not related to crawl in bed with you clothed. Ian feels the soft cotton of sweatpants brush against his bare leg before Mickey wiggles around and puts some distance between them.</p><p>He smells the fresh laundry detergent scent of his T-shirt and hears the little sounds his body makes as he shifts under the covers.</p><p>“Hey,” Ian whispers, belly twisting.</p><p>Mickey stills, then sighs. “Will you stop your fuckin’ <i>hey</i>s?”</p><p>For a second, Ian considers being snarky right back. But after a pause in which he can hear the soft huffs of Mickey’s breaths, he says instead, “Merry Christmas, Mickey.”</p><p>Mickey’s quiet for a long moment--even the sound of his breath gone silent. Finally, he <i>chhh</i>s, making Ian smile in the dark, and mumbles, “Corny bitch” while rolling over to face the opposite direction.</p><p>---<br/>
---</p><p>Ian sleeps like the dead, only waking for a few minutes just after five when Mickey gets out of bed to use the bathroom. He lies there in a twilight, snuggled up in high thread-count sheets, warm and comfortable as he listens to Mickey pee with the door open, flush, wash his hands, and then come back to bed.</p><p>The jostle of the mattress brings Ian into the Land of the Living by just a fraction--enough that he rolls onto his back and stretches. With a sleepy snuffle, he turns on his side toward the middle of the bed, toward Mickey, and the last thing he remembers before closing his eyes and drifting back to Dreamland is the shine of Mickey’s eyes in the city light-glow as he watches him in the dark.</p><p>The next thing he remembers is the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rd8fUwFeyqk">unbelievably obnoxious, fast-paced bell sound</a> of Mickey’s phone ringing. </p><p>He cracks open his eyes, squints at the brightness of the room, and peers at the digital alarm clock. </p><p>9:42 AM. Shit.</p><p>The phone rings and rings, and Ian is just considering rolling over and kicking Mickey when there’s a shuffle under the covers, the other man shifting to reach for the phone on the nightstand.</p><p>The terrible noise stops mid-ring, and a second later, there’s a gruff, groggy, “What?”</p><p>Over the line, a tinny, female voice says, “Merry Christmas, assface.”</p><p>Mickey rolls out of bed then, and Ian feigns sleep as he hears the soft padding of him walking over to the couch, then a cushion squeak as he sits. He can’t hear the other voice anymore, but whoever it is seems to be telling Mickey everything he doesn’t want to hear.</p><p>“<i>Fuck</i> no, I’m not goin’,” he says, forceful and hard, before lowering his volume a bit as if suddenly remembering Ian. “Fuck that shit.”</p><p>There’s a pause, then a murmured, “Buncha pussies. No. Just leave me the fuck alone, Mandy, I said fuckin’ no.”</p><p>A beat. Mickey stands, apparently, as a few seconds later, Ian can see him through his cracked lids, leaning against the wall over by the far windows. The left leg of his sweats is pulled up from his sleep position, stuck at his calf, and he’s got a hand under his shirt, scratching his belly.</p><p>“Fuck.” He pulls his hand away and rubs it across his face. “Whatever. I’ll meet you at seven at the place.” Mickey sniffs, and Ian has to quickly close his eyes again when he starts to turn as if to look at him.</p><p>“Yeah. Yeah, yeah. What-the-fuck-ever. Bye.”</p><p>There’s a heavy sigh, then silence for the longest time. Ian considers opening his eyes to check Mickey’s position but doesn’t want to risk it. </p><p>Finally, after what feels like an hour, there’s the soft padding again, and the bed dips.</p><p>“You can stop pretending to sleep now,” Mickey says, and he doesn’t sound angry at all; he sounds amused, if anything, the gruffness of his voice containing an underlying brightness, like he thinks Ian’s an idiot. </p><p>Ian blows out a breath and turns to face him, watching as Mickey climbs back under the covers and stretches out on his side.</p><p>“You okay?” Ian asks, taking advantage of what he’d heard in Mickey’s voice--a resigned acceptance of his presence, maybe. <i>Something</i>.</p><p>Mickey stares at him, eyes still red-rimmed from the night before, a little puffy from sleeping after crying. He studies his face for a long moment, and then, as if settling on a decision, says, “I hate Christmas.”</p><p>Ian considers calling him Scrooge just to lighten the mood, hoping it’ll make him smile. He doesn’t really know how he’ll take it, though, so he stays silent instead, letting him decide whether or not to continue.</p><p>Mickey twists onto his back and looks up at the ceiling, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth.</p><p>“That was my sister,” he says after a minute, and it’s a small thing, but Ian almost can’t believe it. </p><p>He huffs out a surprised breath at the transparency and asks, “Mandy?”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“Cool.”</p><p>Ian turns onto his back as well, and the two of them lie there for several minutes, quiet.</p><p>Finally, startling Ian into a jump, Mickey says, “Wants me to go to the house today.”</p><p>“Are you?”</p><p>“Fuck no.”</p><p>It’s a one-sided conversation, Mickey not providing details and Ian asking generic questions without knowing the implications behind them. </p><p>He suspects, though. Based on the <i>homophobic nazis</i>, <i>dirt poor</i>, <i>runnin’ drugs</i>, <i>dyin’ of cancer</i> thing, he thinks he probably knows.</p><p>“Did you go to the house yesterday?” Ian deigns to ask, stomach in knots, tilting his head to look at Mickey, who’s got his eyes closed like he’s sleeping.</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>And Ian has his mouth open, poised to speak, when Mickey continues, “Don’t fuckin’ ask me if I wanna talk about it.”</p><p>“Okay.”</p><p>That’s exactly what he’d been about to ask. He bites his lip and studies Mickey’s face, watching his closed eyelids flutter. Watching him suddenly <i>chh</i> and open his eyes, turning back onto his side with a little smile pulling up the corners of his lips.</p><p>Mickey watches Ian for a moment, eyes scanning all over his face, and then, apparently reading him like a book, mumbles, “Predictable,” before rolling onto his belly and getting up on his knees.</p><p>Ian’s heart pounds, his breath coming fast and faster as Mickey scoots toward him and tosses a leg over his upper thighs, settling in a semi-seated position on his legs. He’s bent over, hands on either side of Ian’s shoulders, and Ian can’t help but get his own hands on Mickey’s hips and hold on.</p><p>They’re still clothed, Mickey’s just sitting on him like it’s the most normal thing in the world, and Ian has whiplash, the mood having turned a complete 180 in a matter of moments.</p><p>He doesn’t know what they’re doing. What comes next?</p><p>Ian exhales in a long, slow stream and, after taking a second to consider, decides to let himself enjoy this, not worrying about the <i>what</i>s or <i>why</i>s. He slides his hands to Mickey’s thighs and rubs them back and forth across the fabric of his sweats.</p><p>They’re friends. They’re friends who fuck.</p><p>It’s Christmas morning, and they’re in bed together, and Mickey’s sitting on Ian’s thighs with a funny look on his face.</p><p>“Hey,” Mickey says.</p><p>Ian raises an eyebrow at him. “Stealin’ my line.”</p><p>“Shut up.”</p><p>Mickey sniffs casually and lowers his body, sliding his legs back so he’s lying flat, groin-to-groin with Ian. He takes a deep breath, and Ian looks up at him.</p><p>“What?” he asks, curious about the bit of skin between Mickey’s brows, bunched like he’s thinking.</p><p>Mickey hesitates, mouth working as if he’s trying to form the words, before asking, “How many guys have you fucked?”</p><p>Ian snorts and gets his hands on Mickey’s lower back, playing with the hem of his shirt. “What? Why?”</p><p>Mickey shrugs and leans into his right arm, moving his hips just slightly, just enough to give Ian an idea of where their morning’s going.</p><p>He slides his hands around and squeezes Mickey’s waist, helping him move a bit more, encouraging a slow, steady grind through Mickey’s pants and Ian’s boxers. </p><p>Mickey’s mouth opens at the sensation, and rather than telling him his number--ballpark 50, 60 maybe depending on what counts as fucking--Ian asks, “How many guys have <i>you</i> fucked?”</p><p>Mickey lowers his head, pressing his face against Ian’s neck, his breath coming in hot puffs against his skin as he works his hips. “None of your business.”</p><p>“Then why’s how many guys I’ve fucked <i>your</i> business?”</p><p>“I dunno. Shut up.”</p><p>Ian chuckles and tilts his head back, letting Mickey do his thing.</p><p>And he’s expecting his thing to eventually consist of getting the two of them naked and then climbing on for a ride--<i>shit</i>--but aside from pulling his sweats down his thighs until the two of them are just grinding in their underwear, Mickey makes no move to change position or approach.</p><p>Whatever. This is hot, too. <i>Messy</i>, sure, but hot as fuck, Ian’s hands on Mickey’s ass, pulling him harder down on him as Mickey humps him in a way that would probably look laughable and juvenile to Ian if he weren’t so into it.</p><p>Mickey’s teeth make contact with Ian’s neck, giving him little bite-nips, then sucks, and Ian thinks he might just turn inside out at the feel of the hot, wet mouth on his throat. </p><p>He tilts his head further backward to give the other man more access and slides his hands up to touch at the band of Mickey’s underwear, then just under, along the warm line of skin with the tiniest bit of peach fuzz Ian knows his strangely blond in contrast to the rest of his hair.</p><p>He loves that he knows that. That he knows how Mickey feels right there, then lower, as Ian slides his hands fully inside his underwear to grasp at his ass. He loves that he knows how his sweaty morning hair smells, loves how he knows, with the tiny sting at his neck, how Mickey likes to mark him up, apparently.</p><p>Ian gasps and squeezes Mickey’s ass with both palms, letting him ride at him hard for a second before murmuring, “If you give me another visible hickey I’m never fuckin’ you again.”</p><p>Mickey snorts into his neck and digs into him a little more, pressing his cock snug against Ian’s and dragging them together in rough pushes that rub at Ian in exactly the way he wants, in exactly the way that’s going to make him not give a single fuck about the fact that Mickey’s already sucked a mark onto his neck, the goddamned menace.</p><p>He loves that he knows the way Mickey feels when he’s riding high, the way his hips stutter and breath comes in hard little shakes that escalate the closer he gets to the edge.</p><p>“Fuck,” he murmurs, lips moving against Ian’s neck like a whisper of a kiss.</p><p>Ian holds on to him, pulls him, helps him move back and forth, gets him grinding them together hard, harder, the tingle starting inside him and building until every drag of Mickey’s cock feels like sparks shooting from a lit firecracker fuse, the flame moving closer and closer to the end.</p><p>Boom.</p><p>“Holy shit. Holy shit.”</p><p>Mickey bites him right at the slope where his neck meets his shoulder, and Ian spreads his legs, giving the man more access, getting him in there, on him, letting him pinch his skin between his teeth and then lav over the indentations with his warm, wet tongue.</p><p>Ian pushes his head back into the pillow, and Mickey’s mouth trails up to his jaw and then falls away altogether when he starts to make soft little pleasure noises. </p><p>Mickey pauses, lifts up for a second--moves a hand from beside Ian’s shoulder to the hem of his henley, pushing it up so his belly’s exposed. He shoves his hips back down, thrusts, thrusts, and tilts his head back, eyes crossing.</p><p>Ian watches him and wants to die. Wants the fucking Earth to plummet through the galaxy. He watches, panting, as Mickey moves against him harder and harder and then, with a hissing groan, abruptly shoves a hand down his underwear, gets out his cock, and jerks himself a handful of times before coming in warm pulses against Ian’s lower belly and the front of his boxers.</p><p>“Mickey, fuck,” Ian pushes out, gasping, squeezing his eyes shut at the sensation of Mickey lowering back onto Ian’s groin, his cock still out of his boxers and intermittently dragging against Ian’s skin, and giving him a few hard thrusts that send him over the edge.</p><p>Ian comes hot and messy in his boxers in a way he hasn’t in a while--in a way he hasn’t with another person in his entire life--the pleasure rising so high, feeling so fucking good he must get his hand up to pull against the neck of Mickey’s T-shirt, as all he remembers is the sound of the threads snapping as he stretches it out.</p><p>Fuck. Fuck.</p><p>He opens eyes, half-blind with orgasm and feel-good hormones, and Mickey’s staring down at him, mouth open, panting.</p><p>Fuck.</p><p>He rides out the rest of the waves and then lets himself settle, relaxed and warm and sweaty on Christmas morning in a bed with Mickey Milkovich.</p><p>---</p><p>Mickey rolls off him pretty quickly, and Ian tilts his head, breath coming hard, and watches him tuck his softening dick back into his underwear, pull his sweats back up, and then take off his T-shirt. </p><p>He tosses it at Ian, hitting him in the face, and for a minute, Ian just lies there, the intense smell of Mickey overwhelming his senses.</p><p>He smells laundry detergent and salty sleep-sweat and the faint tang of armpits mixed with deodorant, like the Old Spice was doing its level best to hold on. It smells like Mickey in the morning.</p><p>Ian loves that he knows what he smells like, all real and natural and imperfect in a way that makes him want to sneak the shirt home with him. Makes him want to put it under his pillow.</p><p>The bathroom door closes a minute later, and Ian removes the shirt from his head. He idly uses it to swipe at the come on his stomach, which he guesses was Mickey’s intention for it, and then--to keep his own as clean as he can, sits up and pulls off his henley before he deals with his boxers situation.</p><p>The front of them is disgusting--soaking-through wet on the inside, streaked on the outside. Ruined. He wiggles them off his hips and gets out of bed, making his way over to the desk to grab a tissue for some semblance of clean-up, as he doesn’t necessarily want to wipe his pubes all over Mickey’s shirt.</p><p>While he’s there, he spots his phone, screen lit up with a new text.</p><p>Shit.</p><p>He grabs it and checks his messages for the first time since he’d texted Fiona the night before.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (10:01 PM):</b> Something came up. I won’t be home tonight. See you in the morning.</p><p><b>Fiona (10:02 PM):</b> Came up? It’s Xmas!!</p><p><b>Fiona (10:21 PM):</b> Be careful xo</p><p><b>Fiona (7:25 AM):</b> U headed home soon?</p><p><b>Fiona (10:16 AM):</b> I’m assuming u r alive and r just spendin Xmas morning with someone else’s family. Call me when u can xoxo</p><p>------------------------</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Lip (10:29 AM):</b> Fi’s flipping her shit but trying to pretend she’s not. Thinks you ran off again. </p><p>------------------------</p><p>Fuck.</p><p>Ian has a few missed calls--enough to show the beginnings of panic, the right amount for Fiona to not feel like she’s overstepping while still trying to. </p><p>Ian switches his phone out of silent mode and texts his sister back.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (10:31 AM):</b> With a friend, see you for lunch</p><p><b>Ian (10:31 AM):</b> Promise. Sorry. Merry Christmas!</p><p><b>Fiona (10:32 AM):</b> THE friend?? On Xmas? </p><p><b>Fiona (10:32 AM):</b> Ian</p><p><b>Ian (10:33 AM):</b> 😏</p><p>------------------------</p><p>He sets his phone on the desk. </p><p>Yeah. <i>The</i> friend. The friend who’s just humped him into the mattress.</p><p>Oh, and who’s worth about six million dollars and has 14 million subscribers on YouTube. That friend.</p><p>Ian can’t help but laugh. He’s standing there butt-ass naked in the middle of an expensive hotel room on the fucking Gold Coast, waiting on his celebrity friend-with-benefits to finish with the shower so he can have his turn.</p><p>What the fuck is his life?</p><p>He takes a deep, steadying breath and heads back to the bed to cover up with blankets and watch TV as he waits.</p><p>---</p><p>Mickey comes out in about ten minutes, a cloud of steam chasing him through the door. He’s got on a pair of navy slim-fit boxer shorts and is carrying a hand towel around his neck, which he’s clearly just used to dry his hair. </p><p>When he spots Ian, he freezes for a moment, eyes going wide, before quickly recovering and carrying on, heading over to his suitcase and starting to dig through for clothes as if nothing is out of the ordinary.</p><p>It becomes clear to Ian, as he inches himself toward the edge of the mattress, that Mickey wasn’t expecting him to still be here.</p><p><i>Should</i> he be here? His heart begins to beat its way up into his throat. </p><p>He’d been planning to shower so he didn’t show up at home smelling like sex, but should he just grab his jeans and leave?</p><p>He apparently makes an <i>um</i> sound, as Mickey looks over at him. Ian watches as his eyes scan his face, then wander over to the pile of soiled clothing--Mickey’s Gorillaz shirt, Ian’s boxers--at the foot of the bed.</p><p>“You need some boxers or whatever?” Mickey asks, eyes not making their way back to Ian’s face and instead moving straight to the suitcase in front of him.</p><p>“Was gonna take a shower if you’re cool with it.”</p><p>Mickey shrugs and nods in the direction of the bathroom. “Knock yourself out.”</p><p>It’s awkward in a way it shouldn’t be. Ian gets out of bed, grabs his jeans and henley, and quickly makes his way toward the bathroom, carrying them in front of himself like an underdeveloped teenager in a school locker room.</p><p>And he’s just about to breach the doorway when Mickey calls, “Hey.”</p><p>Ian turns just in time to get hit in the face with a pair of black boxer briefs.</p><p>“Asshole,” he grumbles, holding back a smile, and reaches down to grab them from where they’ve fallen to the floor. “Thanks.”</p><p>He glances toward Mickey before he turns to take his shower, just managing to catch the shake of his shoulders as he digs through his suitcase and laughs at him.</p><p>---</p><p>Mickey’s dressed when Ian leaves the bathroom fifteen minutes later. He’s sitting cross-legged and barefoot on the messy bed, wearing <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/0ff0e24f8838957954060470bbe43e34/181557db8016ec76-68/s500x750/c3a671ee5fa37d7d94f60dc07f851e21f56f3f9d.png">a sweater with the image of a crowd of people on it</a> and black jeans. The TV’s playing the <i>A Christmas Story</i> marathon, but Mickey’s on his phone, tapping away, paying it no attention.</p><p>He looks up only briefly when Ian exits, fully dressed and with Mickey’s underwear on underneath like a secret.</p><p>“Thanks for lettin’ me use the shower,” Ian says, heading over to the desk to start gathering his things. </p><p>Following Mickey’s bored <i>hm</i>, he picks up his shoes from where they’re sitting, stuffed with socks, in the desk chair, and sits down to put them on.</p><p>Casually, he glances toward Mickey as he ties his laces. Watches him sit on the bed like he’s settled in, the remote balanced on his knee and a six-pack with two empty rings sitting on the nightstand beside him.</p><p>Ian’d heard him tell Mandy he’d meet her somewhere at seven. He checks his watch. 11:09. Is Mickey going to be sitting in this hotel room alone all day, spending Christmas by himself with beer and a half-full bottle of Jameson and <i>A Christmas Story</i> on repeat?</p><p>Ian swallows, looking down at his shoes. Drops his foot to the floor and pulls up the other. Picks up the laces and starts to tie.</p><p>He glances back up. Mickey’s scratching the center of his forehead with his thumb, reading something on his phone. He tightens his lips for a second, then locks his phone with a soft click.’</p><p>Mickey might have all the money he could ever want, might be able to afford a luxurious hotel room with city views and room service, but spending Christmas in it by himself is just about the loneliest thing Ian can think of.</p><p>After finishing tying his shoes, he stands and picks up his coat. Works his mouth for a second, considering.</p><p>And finally, because he has nothing to lose and because he wants more than anything for Mickey to have something happy today, he says, voice gentle, “Hey.”</p><p>Mickey looks over at him, brows raised in question.</p><p>“I know you’ll probably say no or whatever, but I was wondering if you wanted to come to my house for Christmas lunch.”</p><p>He feels like a child when he asks it--thinks his voice <i>sounds</i> like a child’s, all soft and unsure.</p><p>Mickey stares at him, and the way his face changes is almost hilarious, is almost enough to make Ian’s own face crack into a smile at how unbelievably taken aback he looks.</p><p>He looks like Ian’s just opened his pants and showed him he has two dicks.</p><p>After a moment of the wild look, Mickey snorts like Ian’s just told him a joke or like he finds the mere suggestion unbelievable.</p><p>Whatever. He’s not going to fucking give up now.</p><p>“C’mon,” Ian says, not above begging. “We’re poor as shit, so don’t expect much, but we’ve got Christmas spaghetti, and my sister’s made cake, and there’s cheap beer and dumb party games. My family’d love to meet you, but like, only my youngest brother’s ever actually watched your stuff, so it won’t be weird, and I’ll make sure he doesn’t bug you too much or whatever.”</p><p>He’s rambling, and Mickey’s eyes have gone wide again.</p><p>“And uh. I dunno.” Ian shrugs, suddenly going shy, his gaze dropping from Mickey to the floor. “You shouldn’t be alone today, and...” He shrugs again. “I want you to come.”</p><p>He chances a glance at him, feeling his cheeks heat.</p><p>To his surprise, though Mickey still looks a little worse for wear, his mouth has softened. Eyes are beginning to soften.</p><p>Ian raises his eyebrows at him. Questioning.</p><p>Mickey sniffs and sets down his phone. “What the fuck’s Christmas spaghetti?”</p><p>Ian smiles. “Come find out.”</p><p>Mickey rolls his eyes dramatically and groans, bringing up his hands to rub against his cheeks.</p><p>“Please?”</p><p>“Jesus Christ.”</p><p>“You haven’t said no.”</p><p>“Fuck.” Mickey sighs, all the air leaving his body in a great rush. He turns his face toward the ceiling as if pleading with God, and then, as if not receiving an answer, shakes his head before looking back toward Ian. </p><p>“Annoyin’ motherfucker,” he says, voice grumpy by force. He reaches his arm out somewhere in the direction of the closet. “Bring me my fuckin’ boots.”</p><p>Ian’s heart leaps. Shit. <i>Shit</i>.</p><p>Mickey might be coming to his fucking <i>house</i>.</p><p>“So you’ll go?” he asks, hopeful, making a beeline toward the closet to grab Mickey’s black Timbs with gray crew socks stuffed inside.</p><p>For fun, he tosses them at him, one by one, and Mickey flips him off after catching them. “Whatever. But I’m not goin’ as your date.”</p><p>“Uh.” Ian holds his arms out to the sides in a goofy <i>oh well</i> gesture and presses his mouth into a straight line. “Pretty sure I didn’t ask you to, but okay?”</p><p>“Just.” Mickey shrugs. “I dunno.”</p><p>“I promise I won’t propose to you over Christmas spaghetti?”</p><p>“Good.”</p><p>“Great.”</p><p>He doesn’t tell Mickey that everybody except Fiona’s definitely going to think they’re dating simply because of the fact that Ian’s currently got a fresh, bright hickey on his throat.</p><p>Whatever. It’s Mickey’s fault.</p><p>After putting on his coat, Ian waits around for Mickey to pull on his boots, fingerless gloves, red, slouchy beanie, and a massive black coat that Ian knows is only so big because he’s so small. </p><p>Once he’s ready, the two of them head down to the lobby, where Mickey orders an Uber Black. Ten minutes later, in the weirdest ride home in his life, Ian finds himself watching the Chicago streets out the window of a Mercedes--the Christmas lights, the Christmas day shoppers, the quieter areas full of families celebrating in their homes.</p><p>It’s a thirty minute car ride. Their driver is a woman in her forties, Wendy, and she clearly doesn’t know anything about MICK MILK or <i>Nightmare Hour</i> or why Mickey acted a little awkward at first before relaxing once he knew he wasn’t going to be recognized. Wendy’s quiet, and Mickey is, too, leaning against the opposite window and playing around on his phone.</p><p>Ian takes out his own phone halfway to their destination and sees he has a notification that Mickey tweeted. He swipes it open and hides his smile when he reads such sweet words from such a grumpy boy.</p><p><i>merry christmas. thanks for sticking with me this year and for being the weirdest but greatest buncha motherfuckers out there.</i> 🤘</p><p>Ian likes the tweet even if, because he’s on private, he knows Mickey can’t see it. </p><p>Whatever. It’s fine. </p><p>Ian turns to watch him and thinks about his good heart and his softness underneath it all.</p><p>---</p><p>Mickey’d described his own financial situation as a kid as <i>dirt poor</i>, but Ian still gets nervous when the car meanders deeper into the Southside--as it turns on North Wallace and slowly passes by all the rundown homes, barren yards, and abandoned buildings filled with crackheads and trash.</p><p>He finds himself wanting to apologize, to make excuses, to say, <i>Yeah, sorry about this. I know it’s not what you’re used to, but I told you I was poor, so.</i></p><p>Ian’s never cared about any of this before, really. It was all he knew--everything with which he surrounded himself. And he’s not ashamed of his origins. He knows Southside’s rough, but there’s good in it, too, and there’s worse places to exist at the end of the day. </p><p>He’s just curious about Mickey--what he’s thinking, what he’s feeling. Mickey who probably lives in a Los Angeles mansion having to take a piss in the grimy Gallagher bathroom.</p><p>The car pulls up in front of 2119. Idles for a minute while Wendy fiddles with her GPS system and tries to make casual goodbye conversation. Ian swallows.</p><p>He pops the door tab, and just as he’s shouldering it open, Lip comes out of the house mid-cigarette-light, clearly checking shit out under the guise of needing a smoke. Checking out the black Mercedes E-Class that’s pulled up to the weed-ridden curb.</p><p>He raises his eyebrows when he spies Ian climbing out, and his cheeks dimple just slightly as he holds in an amused smile.</p><p>“Who’d you fuck for the luxury treatment?” Lip calls--way too fucking loud, godammit--and Ian flushes furiously and flips off his brother as he closes the car door and waits.</p><p>It takes a minute. Mickey’s doing something on his phone. But finally, once Lip starts getting antsy, wandering down the porch steps, the opposite door opens and up pops a red beanie over the roof of the car, followed by the rest of him, swallowed as he is by his coat.</p><p>“Uh, Lip,” Ian starts as Mickey begins making his way around the back of the car. “This is my friend, Mickey. Mickey--my brother, Lip.”</p><p>To his credit, Lip’s perfectly polite, if incredulously, nodding his head Mickey’s way as he smokes with a casualness--heedless of the direction he blows his smoke--that speaks volumes: <i>Who the fuck are you?</i></p><p>“‘ey,” Mickey greets, voice soft and awkward, shoving his hands in the pockets of his coat.</p><p>Ian ushers Mickey toward the porch steps, and as they pass by Lip, who hangs back by the fence, his brother grabs his arm for a second and murmurs, “Friend, huh?”</p><p>“Shut up.” Ian shrugs him off and extends his middle finger behind him as he follows Mickey up onto the porch.</p><p>---</p><p>Ian really hadn’t intended to overwhelm Mickey, though he thinks he probably could’ve tried harder to make this a more comfortable experience for him--namely, he could’ve actually let Fiona know he was bringing a celebrity YouTuber for Christmas lunch so she could give everybody a heads up.</p><p>Not that anybody <i>really</i> knows who he is except Liam. But they’ve all seen Ian’s pictures from the cooperative gameplay session, and Ian had shown them a couple of MICK MILK’s YouTube videos while telling them about it. So they at least know what he looks like, and they have the general understanding that he’s a rich, LA celebrity.</p><p>When Ian walks in with him, everybody just so fucking happens to be piled into the living room, filling the couch and armchairs, watching <i>National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation</i>. The tree he and Lip had commandeered from the Christmas tree lot by the Methodist church is illuminated, filled with the ugly and random ornaments collected over the past twenty-plus years, and beneath it rests a tiny pile of presents with his name on them.</p><p>“Hey, Sweetface,” Fiona greets, climbing out of the armchair. When she spots Mickey, her smile doesn’t waver, but like Lip’s, her brows lift and her eyes go wide.</p><p>“Uh, hi,” she greets cheerfully, voice undercut by a bit of confusion, eyes bouncing between Ian and Mickey. “I’m Fiona.”</p><p>Mickey gives another slightly awkward <i>hey</i>, and Ian takes mercy on his soul and introduces him to everyone.</p><p>He steps further into the living room, where the kids are only half paying attention to what’s going on, Debbie engrossed in her phone and Carl posing like a thirteen-year-old playboy in his baggy clothes and chains, his cornrows starting to frizz out. Liam’s the only one who seems to be paying much attention, twisted on the couch and looking like he can’t believe what’s happening.</p><p>Ian too, really. </p><p>“This is Mickey,” he announces, gesturing toward him. Mickey bounces his brows once, presses his lips together, and gives a quick little hand-raise of a wave. </p><p>Lip comes into the house, then, and squeezes Ian’s shoulders from behind, a joking gesture of support--unenvied commiseration in his awkwardness.</p><p>And Ian doesn’t think anybody would normally give a fuck about a random dude showing up for Christmas, as it’s not like Frank hasn’t pulled in his share of strangers, and it’s not like Fiona hasn’t had a regular string of boyfriends over for years. But well, Mickey’s not exactly a random dude; he’s MICK MILK, and Liam Gallagher is all too aware of him.</p><p>“Why’s MICK MILK in our house?” he asks, little nine-year-old voice, often so serious, now so childlike and amazed, like Mickey Milkovich has just floated in on a cloud--his very own personal Christmas present.</p><p>Ian looks at him, and Mickey appears at a loss.</p><p>See, the thing is, they didn’t exactly come up with a story, and they can’t exactly tell Ian’s siblings they’ve been hooking up regularly since July.</p><p>“Uh,” Ian sputters, peering around nervously and catching Lip’s knowing smirk as he leans back against the wall by the fishtank. “We ran into each other. He’s in town.”</p><p>“And you just invited him to our house?”</p><p>Liam’s nine, but he’s also a smart nine, not a kid who lets himself have the wool pulled over his eyes.</p><p>Mickey, apparently seizing the opportunity to be a goddamned superhero, moves over to Liam, slouches a bit so he’s closer to his height, and asks, “I remember you from the convention signing. What was your name again?”</p><p>He turns up the charm to an eleven, and for a whirlwind of a five minute period, Mickey talks to Liam and answers questions from Debbie and Carl, who definitely don’t really give a fuck about anything other than the fact that he’s famous.</p><p>Ian hangs back by the door, pulls off his coat, and is kicked in the shin by Lip and eyed curiously by Fiona, who pokes at the hickey on his neck and grins at him.</p><p>“Don’t say a word,” he murmurs and stalks toward the couch, where Carl’s lounging, calling Mickey <i>dog</i>, and asking, voice bored, “So you rich or somethin’?”</p><p>So, yeah. Maybe Ian should’ve warned his family. Maybe he should’ve warned Mickey about the moody teenager and the shrimpy white boy who thinks he’s black and the nine-year-old who watches <i>Nightmare Hour</i> religiously. </p><p>But well, he’s doing alright, isn’t he, gone all professionally polite like he’s at a signing and has to pretend to care about people’s adoration.</p><p>It’s fine. It may not be worth it for the sheer amount of smirks his older siblings are giving him, followed by Fiona’s whispered, “All I’m sayin’ is be careful.” But it might be a <i>little</i> worth it for Liam’s smile, like Ian’s given him the best Christmas present in the world, and for the exasperated eye roll Mickey gives him when Liam’s looking away--the eye roll Ian knows doesn’t mean anything but <i>kids, man.</i></p><p>“Okay, okay, okay,” Ian interjects after a few minutes, moving over to grab his little brother. He picks him up, swings him in a circle, and sets him back down. “Leave him alone. It’s just Mickey. Don’t take pictures of him, don’t act weird. He’s just a regular guy.”</p><p>“Am I?” Mickey asks with a cocky smirk, unzipping his coat, and Ian makes a face at him and holds out his hand so he can play polite host and find somewhere to hang it.</p><p>The family had apparently been waiting on Ian to arrive, as once all coats are off and Ian and Mickey are standing awkwardly by the stairs, Fiona ushers everyone into the kitchen for Christmas spaghetti.</p><p>“Sorry,” Ian murmurs once his siblings are all in the kitchen and it’s just the two of them in the quiet of what’s left--a couch with a disheveled blanket, a garish Christmas tree, and Clark Griswold on TV.</p><p>Mickey sighs and shrugs. “Whatever, man. Not like I didn’t expect your family to be annoying as hell.”</p><p>“Fuck you.”</p><p>“And what the fuck’s a Lip?”</p><p>“Phillip.” Ian bumps him with his crossed arms. “C’mon. Christmas spaghetti.”</p><p>“Whatever the fuck that is.”</p><p>Christmas spaghetti is just regular spaghetti but with actual meat sauce instead of off-brand Ragu. It’s not amazing, but it’s nostalgic and home, and it’s something Fiona splurges for on special occasions like Christmas and birthdays.</p><p>Ian moves everybody out of the way, making them shift around the table until Mickey’s able to sit at the end by the door. Lip ends up on the other side of him, and Ian holds his breath throughout most of lunch, hoping he won’t be a dick.</p><p>He’s not, but he clearly doesn’t give one single fuck about the fact that Mickey’s famous to the point that he almost seems critical of the fact.</p><p>“So you get paid three mil a year to play video games?” he asks--not quite judgy, just pointedly curious in a way that makes Ian nervous about where he’s going with it.</p><p>But Mickey handles himself like a champ, chewing his spaghetti and shrugging like it’s no big deal. “Yeah.”</p><p>And Ian sees the moment Lip’s brain switches from one train of thought to another. He was going to be an asshole to Mickey at first, probably, but now he’s curious.</p><p>“What’s the merch and shit bring in?”</p><p>Ian’s surprised at how candid Mickey is about it, considering it took him months to let Ian know that he has a real life family out there somewhere. But that’s the thing with Lip, he guesses. </p><p>Ian eats the rest of his Christmas spaghetti and listens to Mickey tell his brother about his finances using words like <i>monetization</i> and <i>revenue</i>. Lip’s curious about ad blockers impacting Mickey’s earnings, and Mickey takes pulls from his bottle of Old Style and has the most level, serious, and boring adult conversation Ian thinks he’s ever heard him have.</p><p>Because shit can’t last, though, toward the end of their meal, Carl turns to Ian and asks, loud like he wants the fucking neighbors to hear, “Who’s been suckin’ on your neck?”</p><p>Record-scratch.</p><p>Lip snorts, and Ian kicks him under the table.</p><p>Carl’s got a lot going for him if he can get himself out of whatever shady shit’s causing him to come home with money, bruises, and attitude. The ability to put two and two together ain’t one of them. </p><p>Ian’s fairly certain <i>Liam</i> would be more subtle if he weren’t too excited about MICK MILK to be cognizant of the fact that Ian randomly running into him and successfully inviting him to Christmas lunch is a really shitty story.</p><p>Debbie’s definitely figured it out. Lip had known from the second Mickey had climbed out of the car. Fiona already knew--just not the full story.</p><p>Mickey looks like he both wants to laugh and kill someone, his eyes murderous but lips pulled tight in a way Ian’s only seen when Mickey’d looked at him like he was a dumbass.</p><p>Thankfully, Debbie--picking up on the vibes--sucker punches Carl in the arm, and then they’re fighting, and then Liam’s climbing out of his chair and coming over to Mickey with his phone, asking for a selfie.</p><p>It’s diversion enough to allow Fiona to ask who wants dessert. </p><p>Crisis fucking averted.</p><p>Lip kicks him back belatedly, but it’s a brotherly, <i>Everything’s good</i> kick, and Ian nods at him in acknowledgment. </p><p>They have badly decorated cake, and then everybody files into the living room so Ian can open his presents. Mickey sits on the stairs on his phone, clearly trying to escape the madness, but Ian catches him occasionally looking at him before quickly darting his eyes away.</p><p>After presents, there are drinks and sibling arguments. Carl sneaks off somewhere and Fiona frets. To distract herself, she has wine, and eventually the Gallaghers are sitting around, giggling about random shit in the way only they can do, everybody with their own problems and nobody talking about them. After coaxing by Fiona, Mickey leaves his seat on the stairs in favor of a dining chair near the fishtank. He looks a little at a loss at first, but he loosens up once Liam starts in on him again.</p><p>Ian stretches out his leg and gives his brother a gentle little tap of a kick on his butt, telling him to cut it out. “He can’t go live on your Instagram,” he says, trying to be kind because he’s just a kid but firm because he’s probably annoying the hell out of Mickey. “His contract says he’s not allowed.”</p><p>Liam sighs and turns to Mickey. “Well do you wanna play PS5 with me later?”</p><p>“Hey, Liam,” Lip interjects, eyeing Ian. “Why don’t you go find us a boardgame to play, bud?”</p><p>With a resigned sigh, he agrees, and Mickey apparently uses the out to take an even harder out. He thumbs toward the door and pulls his pack of cigarettes from his pocket.</p><p>Once he’s gone, everyone sets in on Ian, Debbie the strongest of all. “Is he your boyfriend?” she asks, face lighting up, and Ian looks at his little sister and doesn’t know how to say, “We’re just fucking” without being weird. She’s seen the hickey, though. She knows what’s up.</p><p>“No,” he says simply, shrugging.</p><p>“He’s nice,” Fiona reassures. “Quiet.”</p><p>“<i>Overwhelmed</i>.”</p><p>“Hey, we’re Gallaghers.” She picks up her wine glass and toasts in the general direction of her siblings. “Don’t think we know how to <i>under</i>whelm.”</p><p>Ian snorts. “Maybe in GPAs and general expectations of success.”</p><p>“Here, here.”</p><p>“Here’s what I think,” Lip says conspiratorially, fiddling with a joint he has tucked behind his ear. “I think you should fuck him for like, six months, a year. Let him buy you all this expensive shit before you break up with him and rob his house.”</p><p>He’s bullshitting, a dimply smile growing on his face the more he talks. Ian flips him off and stands. “I’m gonna go make sure he hasn’t hung himself from the porch overhang.”</p><p>Fiona, a little light on her feet, makes kissy face noises as he walks away toward the door, and Ian has to take a series of deep breaths before exiting in order to calm his embarrassed flush.</p><p>---</p><p>He finds Mickey leaning over the small bit of railing, smoking slowly, savoring it.</p><p>“Got a spare?” Ian asks in greeting, and Mickey shrugs, reaching into his pocket and handing over the pack of cigarettes and a yellow BIC.</p><p>They’re quiet while Ian lights up and takes a couple hard drags, taking a moment to blow the smoke in straight streams, watching as it puffs out at the end into a cloud.</p><p>“So,” he says eventually, turning to Mickey, who’s finishing up his cigarette and crushing it out on the railing alongside the dozens of tiny ash piles where the Gallaghers have been doing the same thing for years. “Thoughts?”</p><p>Mickey <i>chhh</i>s, and Ian smiles at him. </p><p>“Sorry ‘bout Liam. He’s not usually like this.”</p><p>“He’s fine.” Mickey shrugs. “Just a kid.”</p><p>Ian watches as he licks his bottom lip and leans back over the railing, eyes wandering around the neighborhood. </p><p>“My family can get a little intense sometimes. They mean well, they’re just a little…”</p><p>“Loud?”</p><p>Ian huffs a laugh. “Yeah.”</p><p>Mickey chuckles, and it sounds a bit sad, like he’s thinking of something unpleasant. “Better than mine, though,” he finally murmurs, low like Ian’s the only one allowed to hear it. “‘least your family didn’t bring out guns for some Christmas fun.”</p><p>Ian doesn’t know how to interpret that. Fun sportsmanship? Violence? Both? He watches Mickey’s face, sees the bend in his brow and the way he gnaws a bit at his bottom lip.</p><p>He’s peering around the neighborhood, eyes settling on house after house, this and that. He doesn’t look shocked, and he doesn’t look disgusted or worried or even interested, really. He looks around like the surroundings are familiar memories.</p><p>When Ian nears the end of his cigarette, Mickey holds out his fingers for it. Ian looks at him.</p><p>Really?</p><p>He shrugs and hands it over, and Mickey takes a quick puff before handing it back for Ian to finish.</p><p>There’s just the smallest bit left. While Ian would normally ash it at this point, he takes one last drag anyway, if only to put his lips where Mickey’s had been.</p><p>It’s in that moment that Fiona calls from the house, “We’re ‘bout to play Pictionary! Winner gets to do the chores board for the week!”</p><p>Mickey snorts at that, and Ian smiles at him, bouncing his eyebrows.</p><p>“Chores board, huh?” Mickey asks in the same tone of voice he’d asked about Christmas spaghetti and Lip’s name. “Better get in there, Gallagher.”</p><p>Ian rolls his eyes and shoves at him lightly, belly warming at the little grin that works its way onto Mickey’s face. “C’mon, Milkovich. You can’t miss the excitement.”</p><p>“<i>Chh</i>. Yeah, yeah, whatever, ya loser.” His smile only grows as he says it, shoving Ian back.</p><p>The two of them start to make their way into the house, but just as Ian’s opening the door, something above him catches his eye. </p><p>He pauses. Looks up.</p><p>And like something out of the cheesiest Hallmark movie, he discovers that he and Mickey are standing beneath the stupid sprig of mistletoe Lip had taken from the Christmas tree lot, joking about hanging it from his belt when he goes back to college.</p><p>Catching Ian’s action, Mickey looks up, as well, and Ian knows he isn’t seeing things when Mickey’s cheeks flame up at the speed of sound, going from 20 degree weather pale to a flushed pink in a matter of seconds.</p><p>Ian has to breathe through his mouth for a minute, his heart and lungs working so fast he fears he might pass out if he doesn’t.</p><p>And it’s stupid as shit. It’s a fucking plant. Big deal.</p><p>He chances another glance at Mickey, though, considering. </p><p>“Buncha weird fuckers,” Mickey suddenly says, voice gruff though he’s breathing in harsh little pants, himself. “You guys like, kiss each other in front of your doorway?”</p><p>“Fuck you.” Ian shoves him and elbows his way into the house, skin stinging beneath his eyes with embarrassment. </p><p>---</p><p>They play Pictionary--Ian, Mickey, and Liam a team. Mickey’s actually weirdly good at drawing in a way Ian wasn’t expecting, though it doesn’t really help them win, as Ian can’t guess for shit.</p><p>“You’re the fuckin’ <i>worst</i>,” Mickey complains afterward, finishing up his beer. “That was so fuckin’ obviously a record.”</p><p>“<i>It looked like a fuckin’ dinner plate</i>!”</p><p>“Really? A dinner plate on a record player with music notes comin’ out of it?” </p><p>“Shut the fuck up. It looked like a plate.”</p><p>“Who gives a fuck if it looked like a plate? You guessed it a thousand fuckin’ times and it was never right!”</p><p>Ian, feeling light from the playful fighting, pulls Mickey’s beanie down over his eyes and dashes for the bathroom.</p><p>---</p><p>Eventually, Liam successfully convinces Mickey to play video games with him, and the two of them spend nearly an hour and a half playing a motorcycle racing game.</p><p>Ian hangs out with them for a bit, but Liam has zero interest in ever giving Ian a turn, and he’s not interested in racing against Ian when Mickey offers to let him play in his place for a bit. And that’s okay. Liam’s an excited kid, and Ian wants him to have a nice Christmas moment.</p><p>He heads upstairs and changes his clothes, pulling on a clean sweatshirt and jeans. He considers changing out of Mickey’s underwear, but figures handing him a pair of unwashed boxer briefs to carry home with him would be just about the weirdest thing he could possibly do.</p><p>When Ian had pulled them on that morning, he’d checked the label, expecting them to be fucking Prada or Gucci or whatever expensive shit rich people wear, but he discovered that they’re literally just regular underwear you can buy at Target.</p><p>Ian wonders if that means it’s okay if he keeps them. Additionally, he wonders if it makes him a giant weirdo for <i>wanting</i> to keep them.</p><p>Whatever. Mickey’s hot, and it’s totally a normal thing to want to keep a hot guy’s underwear. It’s not like Ian’s gonna jerk off with them; it’d just be nice to have a little memento.</p><p>Ugh.</p><p>He zips up his clean pair of jeans and leaves his room in search of more cake in the kitchen.</p><p>---</p><p>At a few minutes before six, Mickey starts getting restless, checking his phone more often, stretching a bit like he’s about to make an excuse to leave--he’s tired, he’s got an early flight, he’s got somewhere to be.</p><p>They’re watching <i>Gremlins</i>, that and <i>Die Hard</i> being Gallagher Christmas staples, and Mickey and Ian are on opposite ends of the couch, Liam between them.</p><p>Ian watches him fidget for a minute and suddenly remembers he’s supposed to meet Mandy somewhere at seven, so he decides to give him an easy out.</p><p>“You gotta go?” he asks over Liam’s head, nodding toward the door.</p><p>Mickey nods. “Gotta meet Mandy.”</p><p>The rest of the Gallaghers overhear, and everybody says their goodbyes. Lip still acts like he doesn’t give a fuck, Debbie still acts a little too giggly but all-around is holding up well, and Liam’s still experiencing major hero worship. Fiona, to her credit, gives Mickey a hug, and Mickey’s complete and total awkwardness at the exchange makes something light up in Ian’s chest.</p><p>He’s proud of his family, really. No disasters. Nothing too offensive. </p><p><i>Holy shit</i>, Ian suddenly thinks, following Mickey out the door so they can say their goodbyes without an audience. </p><p>Holy fucking shit. Mickey just spent six hours with his family. <i>Mickey just met his fucking family.</i></p><p>He takes slow, deep breaths as they stand on the porch together in silence. Mickey lights up another cigarette and smokes while he orders an Uber.</p><p>“So what’s your sister like?” Ian asks casually, leaning against the post, arms crossed over his chest to keep out some of the cold.</p><p>Mickey takes a puff off his cigarette and raises an eyebrow. “You mean you haven’t seen my old Let’s Plays?”</p><p>Ian kicks Mickey’s boot. “Yeah, but like, I dunno. I don’t really remember details. I’m not <i>that</i> big a fan.”</p><p>“<i>Chh</i>. I don’t think you’re a fan at all. Still ain’t followed me on Instagram.”</p><p>“If I’m not a fan, then why don’t you follow <i>me</i>?” Ian huffs a breath and, committing himself to bravery, holds out his fingers for Mickey’s cigarette.</p><p>He’s expecting at least a little hesitation, but Mickey easily passes it over and watches him as he takes a slow drag.</p><p>Smoke puffs out his mouth as he finishes, “You said you don’t follow fans. You follow <i>friends</i>.”</p><p>Mickey scoffs and holds out his fingers, taking the cigarette back. “Fuck off.”</p><p>They’re silent for a few minutes as Mickey finishes off the cigarette.</p><p>And Ian’s just about to ask Mickey what time his Uber’s due to arrive when Mickey asks, casual as anything, “Ya wanna meet Mandy?”</p><p>To put it frankly, Ian’s floored--figuratively, in a way that would absolutely be literally if his bones weren’t keeping him up. His heart’s dropped to his belly in a way that makes him feel lightheaded. </p><p>Shit.</p><p>Is Mickey inviting him along?</p><p>Ian sucks his bottom lip into his mouth for a long minute. Glances around the neighborhood. Shivers from the cold though his face is growing hotter and hotter by the minute.</p><p>He takes a deep breath. “Uh. Yeah,” he says, turning to Mickey. “That’d be cool.”</p><p>“Cool.”</p><p>Mickey fidgets, looking at his nails, unlocking his phone to check the progress of the Uber driver.</p><p>“Listen,” he murmurs then, tapping around aimlessly on his phone as if he’s trying to appear distracted.</p><p>Ian swallows.</p><p>“I’ve got a flight out at eight tomorrow, but, y’know. If you wanna…” He can’t seem to look at Ian, eyes focusing on his phone screen, then on his shoes, then somewhere in the vicinity of Ian’s shoulder. “I dunno. I’ve got the room still.”</p><p>Ian’s chest feels like someone’s lit a match inside it. Like if he doesn’t open his mouth and take deep breaths, he’s going to light up like a goddamn stolen lot Christmas tree.</p><p>“Cool,” he says, immediately cringing inwardly.</p><p>He looks around, eyes focusing on everything and nothing, before deciding, “Lemme go get a bag.”</p><p>Mickey nods at him, and Ian feels like his bones are turning to liquid.</p><p>Somehow, he makes it up to his room--packs pajamas, underwear, and clothes for the next day. Tosses in his pill organizer, toothbrush, and deodorant.</p><p>His family is like a pack of dogs on him when he tries to make his escape with a backpack. Fiona corners him near the front door, hugs him, and reminds him again to be careful.</p><p>“D’ya know what you’re doin’?” she asks, hand on his shoulder.</p><p>Ian shrugs. “Not really.”</p><p>Fiona gives him a light tap on his cheek with her fingers like she’s pretending to slap him for being an idiot, then pulls him in for another hug. “Merry Christmas, Ian.”</p><p>He squeezes her. “Merry Christmas, Fi.”</p><p>---<br/>
---</p><p>Turns out, <i>the place</i> he’d heard Mickey mention on the phone is a fancy-ass Chinese restaurant that looks completely unassuming from the street. It’s located only a few blocks away from the hotel--close enough that Ian and Mickey could walk back afterward if they wanted.</p><p>Ian thinks, though, that the reason Mickey goes there--apparently regularly, if the way he didn’t even have to mention the name is taken into account--is because the clientele is 90% rich middle-aged couples who won’t know who he is.</p><p>Not that he’s super recognizable in his giant coat, anyway, and without his earrings, even with his beanie off and that distinctive haircut on display, it wouldn’t be the easiest thing in the world to identify him unless you were a fan.</p><p>Still, Ian keeps his distance without being asked, bringing his stupid backpack into the restaurant with him, and Mickey gets a private table behind a partition.</p><p>Mandy isn’t there yet, so the two of them order their drinks and sip them quietly. Mickey’s distracted, so Ian doesn’t try to make conversation, just lets the twinkling of the traditional Chinese music fill the space in-between them.</p><p>At 7:07, Mickey’s phone buzzes, and he answers it, telling Mandy the location of their table.</p><p>It’s fucking surreal to see her when she shows up, edging around the partition and developing a puzzled look when she sees Ian.</p><p>Mandy’s beautiful in a quirky, grungy-stylish way--all long, smooth dark brown hair and eyes blue like Mickey’s. She has both a nose and tongue piercing, there’s a tattoo of a tiny, flying flock of m-shaped birds just under her collarbone, and she’s wearing a black tunic sweater, leggings, and Doc Martens with gray boot socks scrunched down just above them. There’s a deep purple pea coat tossed over her arm.</p><p>She pulls out the chair beside Mickey and sits down, slouching in a way that makes Ian immediately like her.</p><p>Mickey doesn’t hug her, and he doesn’t tell her Merry Christmas or say anything at all, really, except a bored-sounding, “‘ey.”</p><p>“Who’re you?” she asks Ian, and though she doesn’t sound particularly accusatory--just curious--Ian’s stomach gives a nervous swoop.</p><p>“Uh. Ian,” he says, twisting his drink glass in a circle. “Mickey’s friend.”</p><p>Mandy smirks and turns to her brother. “You have a friend?”</p><p>Mickey flips her off and picks up one of the menus from the stack the waitress had left on the corner of the table. “Shut up and let’s order.”</p><p>Ian has no idea what to get. All Chinese restaurants he’s ever been to just have a couple tiny tables at the front and serve things in Americanized combos. He’s not that hungry, truth be told, that second piece of cake not being the most advantageous choice, so he just orders the same thing as Mickey--some kind of soup--and some crab rangoons.</p><p>Mandy, on her part, orders a full-on platter, joking about how she’s got to take advantage of money when she’s around it. Mickey bristles at her, but Ian knows it’s just for show, the tiny, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it smile on his lips giving him away. She’s his annoying little sister. That’s all.</p><p>“Soooo, how’d you meet?” Mandy asks, leaning on her elbows and speaking directly to Ian, ignoring Mickey, who makes a <i>will you shut the fuck up?</i> face.</p><p>“I, uh…” Ian sputters, not actually sure what to say. He’s positive Mandy knows stuff, as she’s presumably relatively close with Mickey if her Instagram’s anything to go by. Still. He looks toward Mickey for help.</p><p>“None of your fuckin’ business,” the other man supplies, stabbing a straw into his drink class and leaning in to take an inelegant slurp.</p><p>Mandy rolls her eyes. “You’re fucking. Whatever. I don’t care. Are you guys like, <i>talking</i> or just casual?”</p><p>“Oh my God, I hate you so much.”</p><p>Ian presses his lips together and watches the siblings argue over who’s allowed to know information about whose sex life. It gets heated to the point that they look like they want to kill each other, but then in a split second, cools down again on its own, the whole fight barely a blip on their radar.</p><p>Mandy slurps her oolong iced tea and cuts her eyes toward Ian. “What do you do?” she asks, and she looks genuinely interested in him in a way Ian hasn’t experienced with anyone in a while--this completely no-holds-barred kind of interest, like she’s already, after knowing him for ten minutes, willing to listen to all his secrets and then immediately make plans to hang out with him again.</p><p>Ian does hate the question, though. He sighs a little and shrugs. “Work at a diner. Lookin’ for something else, but I dunno.”</p><p>“I do weekends at Waffle Cottage.”</p><p>Mickey snorts. “While wearin’ a fuckin’ squirrel on your head like a dumbass.”</p><p>“It’s the uniform, Mick.”</p><p>“Well, the uniform’s stupid. The fuck does a squirrel have to do with waffles, anyway?”</p><p>Ian smiles at their banter and just really, really likes them both.</p><p>Their food comes after another ten minutes. Ian’d been hesitant about the soup, but it’s actually great, and he slurps at it while talking mostly to Mandy about her life. He learns she’s a Psych major at UIC with interests primarily in Abnormal Psychology. Ian feels like cutting his head open and handing her his brain, telling her to have at it.</p><p>He learns she has a guy she’s been seeing recently, which is apparently news to Mickey, though he very clearly pretends like he doesn’t care, even telling her to stop being gross.</p><p>He learns she’s fiercely protective of her brother, no matter how much she teases him.</p><p>They’re nearly done with their food, sharing Ian’s little tray of crab rangoons, when Mickey asks quietly, like he doesn’t actually want to but knows he must, “So what went down?”</p><p>Mandy glances toward Ian and then back at Mickey, a question in her eyes, and Ian would feel offended if it weren’t for the fact that he gets her caution. Mickey’s notoriously private. Ian’s an outsider. It’s fine.</p><p>Mickey doesn’t say anything--just keeps looking at her as if expecting an eventual answer--and she shrugs and bites into the rangoon.</p><p>She chews thoughtfully and then says, “Nothing. They’re fuckin’ dumbasses.”</p><p>“Coulda told you that. They’re not gonna do it. Pussies.”</p><p>“Yeah, well.” Mandy looks her brother in the eye, and something passes between them. “Not so easy, y’know. I couldn’t do it.”</p><p>“Fuck. I could.”</p><p>“Well do it.”</p><p>Mickey snorts like whatever the hell she’s suggesting is ridiculous. Ian doesn’t know what they’re talking about and probably shouldn’t be listening anyway. He takes out his phone and scrolls around on social media, trying to look distracted.</p><p>Rather than respond directly to whatever Mandy suggested, Mickey asks, “How is he?”</p><p>“Smells like shit.”</p><p>“Appropriate.”</p><p>Ian glances up at just the right moment to see Mandy smile.</p><p>“Iggy’s pissed,” she adds, leaning over to take a drink off her tea. “Can’t plan for shit, and our wonderful cousins are trying to take over, so there’s that.”</p><p>“Did ya tell ‘em I’ll pay for ‘em a fuckin’ apartment if they’ll just get legal jobs?”</p><p>“You try tellin’ ‘em that. They’re under dad’s big toe.”</p><p>“Pussies.”</p><p>Mickey looks over at Ian, then, and sniffs. And that’s the end of that conversation. Mandy asks Ian if he liked “that gross-ass soup Mickey gets,” and suddenly they’re talking about food, the serious, secret conversation between the Milkovich siblings forgotten for the moment.</p><p>---</p><p>Ian gives Mickey and Mandy a bit of space when they’re readying to leave, moving around the partition to wait out in the open while the two of them remain back at the table.</p><p>Though he can’t see them, he hears a gruff little <i>hrmph</i> like Mickey’s unhappy to be hugged, then a soft, “Merry Christmas, annoying bitch.” </p><p>They’re quiet for a minute, and Ian’s expecting them to come out from behind the partition, but before they do, he hears Mickey say, “Hey. The apartment offer extends to you, too, y’know. I can get you one of those Northside places with the balconies and flowers and shit.”</p><p>“Somebody’s gotta take care of him, Mick.”</p><p>“I’ll get him a nurse. One of the ones who kill their fuckin’ patients.”</p><p>Mandy laughs, and the two of them come out from behind the partition shoving at each other like a pair of kids.</p><p>The three of them walk out together, and on the sidewalk, Mandy gives Ian a quick hug. Mickey wanders off several feet, pulling out a cigarette to smoke, and Mandy uses the opportunity to say, “I don’t know what your deal is, but take care of him.” </p><p>She crosses her arms over her chest, her deep purple pea coat clearly worn for fashion rather than warmth. “He’d say the same thing about me, but he’s an idiot who never asks for help, and you’ve gotta kick his ass sometimes.”</p><p>Ian nods at the girl in front of him. He doesn’t know what any of this means, really, but whatever she asks of him, he’ll try to do.</p><p>“Yeah,” he says. Of course he will.</p><p>Mandy smiles.</p><p>---</p><p>After Mandy leaves, they walk to the hotel. Mickey’s quiet the entire way, clearly thinking about whatever he and his sister had been discussing.</p><p>Their dad, obviously. Their brothers, probably. Ian distinctly remembers Mickey mentioning <i>Iggy</i> on the phone in the bathroom that day several months ago when Ian’s life would be steamrolled by the force of nature that is this man.</p><p>When they arrive back at the hotel, Mickey orders an entire apple pie to be delivered to the room, then switches on the TV. He wanders around, restless, like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Fiddles with the thermostat. Digs around aimlessly in his suitcase. Disappears into the bathroom for a short enough period of time that he couldn’t have actually taken care of any type of business.</p><p>Ian stands awkwardly by the bed for a minute before pulling off his backpack. He should take his meds.</p><p>While Mickey’s busy with his next task--getting a black duffle out of the closet and carrying it over to set it on the desk--Ian unzips his bag, pops open the FRI. EVE. tab on his pill organizer, careful not to make it rattle, and scoops out the three little pills.</p><p>He keeps an eye on Mickey, who’s pulling out a smaller, padded carrying case that he proceeds to unzip to reveal a PS5 tucked inside. Ian sneaks off to the bathroom, takes his pills using the water glass Mickey has by the sink, presumably for his own meds consumption, then pees and washes his hands to disguise his activities.</p><p>Idly, as he eyes himself in the mirror, examining the obscenity that is the hickey in the dead-center of his throat--clear evidence of his and Mickey’s tryst that makes him grimace as much as it makes his belly warm--he wonders if he’ll ever tell Mickey about his bipolar. If it’ll ever be a necessity to discuss for one reason or another.</p><p>Maybe he’ll have an episode, maybe Mickey’ll catch him taking his meds, maybe Ian will one day want to tell him all his secrets.</p><p>He wonders what Mickey would think about it--about him. Would he still like him? Would he think he’s crazy? Too much trouble to deal with just to get fucked?</p><p>He wonders if Mickey might one day tell him about his own meds--his own diagnosis. </p><p>Ian scans the countertop. Both the Advil and antacid tablets are still there, but the CVS prescription bottle’s gone, Mickey likely having put it away once he noticed it was out for Ian to see. </p><p>He flips off the light switch and, turning to leave, wonders when friends tell each other stuff like this. It’s not like he’s had much experience with non-familial friendships. Lip’s been his go-to for as long as he can remember, and though there have been kids at school--JROTC nerds, math study group members, lab partners--and coworkers at clubs, at the diner, he’s never been close with anybody. Never had anybody over just to hang out. Never called or texted anybody just for fun--just because he wanted to talk.</p><p>When he steps out into the main room, he spies Mickey standing over by the TV, hooking up cables.</p><p>“Ready to get your ass kicked again, Milkovich?” Ian asks, coming over to sit on the bed and watch him install the system.</p><p>“In your dreams, Gallagher.” He’s smiling when he says it, and Ian’s soul soars with possibility.</p><p>---</p><p>Mickey gets the PS5 hooked up easily, but before he can get anything going, the pie is delivered. It’s warm and smells like cinnamon and sugary crust, and Ian sets it on the coffee table along with the dishes and forks that had been delivered with it.</p><p>“Plate,” Mickey says, voice exaggeratedly instructive as if he’s teaching a toddler how to read. He picks up one of the dessert plates and displays it for Ian. “Notice the distinct lack of music coming from it.”</p><p>Ian <i>pshhh</i>s and rolls his eyes. “You suck.”</p><p>“<i>I</i> suck? I drew a great fuckin’ record player. You’re a dumbass.”</p><p>“Debbie’s gonna put me on toilet duty.”</p><p>“Have fun, bitch.”</p><p>They cut and plate massive slices of pie, and Ian carries his over to the bed. Mickey grabs two waters from the fridge before trudging over and climbing on beside him, their backs to the headboard. </p><p>He puts on <i>A Christmas Story</i>, and as they watch and eat, making casual comments about the plot and characters, it occurs to Ian that things have come full circle since that morning. When Ian was preparing to leave on his own, Mickey’d had this movie on, sitting all by himself on the bed while he used his phone as a distraction.</p><p>Now, the two of them sit together, eating unhealthy quantities of pie and watching Ralphie ask Santa for a Red Ryder BB gun.</p><p>
  <i>You’ll shoot your eye out, kid.</i>
</p><p>Mickey gets up once they’re done and carries their empty plates back to the coffee table. On his way back to the bed, he grabs the bottle of Jameson, pours a completely reasonable amount into a clean drinking glass left by the housekeeper, and returns with it.</p><p>And for the rest of the movie, Ian and Mickey pass the glass back and forth, taking tiny sips that make Ian feel like he’s wrapped in a blanket, like he’s wrapped up in someone’s arms. Warm and soft.</p><p>He tilts his head toward Mickey while the credits are rolling and the TV is announcing yet another repeat of the movie next on the all-day marathon.</p><p>Mickey’s licking his bottom lip absently and turning the now-empty drinking glass in his hands, like he’s thinking. His brows are knit together--eyes are too-focused on the scrolling credits in a way that reveals he isn’t focused at all.</p><p>And Ian knows they’re not going to watch the damn movie again, even though they only caught the last half, but Mickey makes no move to change the channel when the movie starts back up again.</p><p>Ian watches him turn his glass, watches his tongue touch the chapped bit of skin in the center of his bottom lip, watches him blink lazily, and thinks about how when you boil it all down to months and months of sex and awkward hotel hang-outs that are slowly becoming less awkward as time passes, what’s left is simply the fact that Ian’s happy to know him.</p><p>As frustrating as he is, as much as he sort of wants to punch him sometimes, and as much as he’s not sure what their deal is--whether Mickey likes him and wants to be friends or just wants to fuck him--Ian knows that his life has been made immeasurably better by the grumpy boy in the beanies and earrings and patterned button-down shirts.</p><p>He’s staring, and he doesn’t realize it until Mickey suddenly comes back to himself and turns his head, their eyes meeting.</p><p>He quirks his brow in confusion, and Ian shrugs a little in apology and looks away. He hears Mickey sniff. Swallow.</p><p>“Hey,” Mickey murmurs, and after allowing himself a moment to breathe deeply, Ian tilts his head back to look at him again. He doesn’t mention the fact that Mickey’s <i>hey</i>ing him in a way that he, himself, hates. He doesn’t mention anything at all.</p><p>Because Mickey’s looking at him like he’s nervous about something, his eyes darting a bit but ultimately doing their best to focus on Ian’s face.</p><p>Ian raises his eyebrows in question.</p><p>“Just wanted to say, y’know. Thanks. I guess.”</p><p>Ian just watches him. Lets him finish.</p><p>“For, uh, y’know, like, invitin’ me to your house or whatever.” He turns away, then looks down at the glass in his hands like he’s wishing it were full. “My dad kinda fucks me up sometimes, and uh, I fuckin’ hate holidays, so, y’know. Thanks for stayin’ with me.”</p><p>Ian thinks about saying, <i>Of course, Mickey. Any time.</i> He thinks about saying, <i>Whatever you need, I gotcha.</i> Very seriously, he thinks about saying, <i>I was just thinking about how happy I am to know you.</i></p><p>But what he says is nothing, knowing Mickey’s feeling worried right now. Embarrassed. Awkward. Ian doesn’t know how he’d receive any of it, if he’d consider the feelings to be too much, unwanted, uncomfortable.</p><p>Instead, he reaches over and pokes him in the thigh, just a tease.</p><p>Mickey rolls his head against the headboard, turning to look back at Ian. He smiles, slow.</p><p>Ian wants to tell him he looks sweet like that. That he should do it more often. All the fucking time.</p><p>Instead, he smiles back, and they let the energy change, going from the awkwardness of verbally expressed gratitude to the sizzle of something else, something more physical.</p><p>Tentatively, like he’s shy, Mickey sets down the drinking glass and reaches out, hands just touching at the hem of Ian’s sweatshirt, imploring. </p><p>Ian nods at him, and Mickey leans over, getting on his knees so he can better move around. He takes the fabric of Ian’s top and slowly pulls it up and off him, Ian raising his arms to help and then, once shirtless, moving his hands to the hem of Mickey’s sweater in order to return the favor.</p><p>They undress each other. It’s the first time, really, though there’s been an assisted shirt removal a time or two. Mickey fumbles at the fly of Ian’s jeans as if he’s just now discovering it’s more difficult to unbutton another person’s clothing than your own, everything backwards.</p><p><i>How many guys have you fucked</i>?</p><p>Ian wonders now why he’d asked that. He helps Mickey help him get his jeans off, and then he gently gets him on his back so he can work on divesting him of his own jeans--skinnies, so they’re harder to remove and bring his underwear down a bit with them.</p><p>Ian knows he wasn’t a virgin when they’d fucked for the first time; he’d been too confident, too aware of what he liked and what he wanted. But Ian has the sneaking suspicion that no matter his history, he hasn’t done much like this.</p><p>Undressing. Exploring. Ian thinks, too, that he might not have ever given a blowjob.</p><p>Idly, he wonders whether if Ian had told him his number and it had been relatively low, Mickey would’ve shared his own number.</p><p>Or who knows. Maybe Mickey really is a sex god, fucking half of Los Angeles. Maybe he just doesn’t like the more intimate stuff--thinks it’s a waste of time, thinks it’s disingenuous, unnecessary.</p><p>If he does, he seems to be doing alright with it now, stretching out on his back and letting Ian touch his mouth to his stomach.</p><p>Ian holds him loosely at the waist and kisses him, pauses to brush the tip of his nose up and down the faint line of slightly visible abs. He breathes him--his natural, intoxicating warmth and the faint green tea and verbena hotel body wash Ian’d also used. He touches his lips to the barely-there bit of hair trailing into his underwear, drags kisses down, down, until he has to slide his fingers along the band of his boxers to tug them off.</p><p>Mickey’s half-hard when Ian gets his mouth on him, but he plumps up fully quickly enough, letting out gaspy sighs and sliding his fingers into Ian’s hair.</p><p>Ian’s gotten over any care about condoms while he blows him. He knows Mickey enough to know he’d tell him if he needs to be concerned about anything. Now, all Mickey does is make soft little noises that let Ian know he’s feeling nice, and Ian tongues at him, takes him in as far as he can, hand covering the rest and allowing him to feel it when he’s completely engulfed in someone who wants to give him good things.</p><p>Ian tastes him--the tiny, salty trace of fluid, the sweat on his skin. He rubs his thumb soothingly against the line where his pubes start, giving him a bit of softness, another sensation to go with the mouth on his dick.</p><p>“Fuck,” Mickey exhales, and Ian looks up in time to see him squeeze his eyes shut, pushing his head back into the pillows.</p><p><i>God</i>, he’s hot. He’s so fucking hot. Ian lifts up and asks after the lube, and Mickey, with a sigh, reaches an arm out and retrieves it from the nightstand drawer.</p><p>Ian takes it and slathers up his fingers before getting his mouth back around Mickey. And as he starts up a slow series of shallow sucks, taking him down just half-way, just until he can feel the salty head of him slide against the roof of his mouth, Ian starts working a lubed finger inside him.</p><p>“Oh, fuck,” Mickey groans, clearly not expecting the intensity of the dual sensations. “Holy fuck.” He sighs hard, a great puff of air, and Ian searches him out inside, sliding in a second finger and running them against him, feeling for that spot.</p><p>When he finds it, Mickey lets out a sound like he’s been punched in the gut, and Ian smiles around his cock as he tastes a little dribble of precome on his tongue. He bobs slowly on him for a minute, prodding at that bundle of nerves, and then abruptly pulls off when Mickey’s grasps at his hair get hard, verging on pulling, and his pleasured gasps turn to groans.</p><p>Ian places one last tender kiss to the tip of Mickey’s dick and turns his fingers’ attentions away from stimulating him and toward getting him ready. He removes his fingers, adds more lube, and slides in three with just the barest bit of resistance, Mickey’s arousal making him loose and relaxed.</p><p>He thrusts his fingers in him for a minute, watching Mickey’s face--the sweat beginning to form at his temples, the crinkles of his squeezed-shut eyes, the teeth biting at his bottom lip. On a whim, his own stomach swooping, he stretches up and touches his mouth to Mickey’s neck, giving him a series of affectionate, tongue-filled kisses up and down the line of his shoulder, then just beneath his ear.</p><p>Mickey opens his eyes as if startled before closing them again, and Ian feels the little skim of the tiniest bit of wetness against his hip as he inadvertently brushes against Mickey’s dick.</p><p>“Get the fuck on me,” Mickey murmurs, and unlike all the other times he’s said it, this time he just sounds desperate for it. </p><p>Ian kisses his neck in a series of quick, light little pecks--three, one after the other--that he knows Mickey would probably grumble at if he were of mind to do it. As it is, Mickey merely sighs and reaches back for the nightstand, getting the squished box of condoms and tossing them at Ian’s head.</p><p>Ian ducks with a “<i>Jesus Christ</i>, Mickey,” and removes his fingers from his body. He wipes them on his--well, <i>Mickey’s</i>--boxer briefs before pulling them off and tossing them somewhere in the vicinity of the sitting area.</p><p>After applying a bit of lube to the tip of the condom and sliding it on, Ian looks over to find Mickey watching him, his mouth open as he breathes in aroused pants.</p><p>Ian smiles at him, just because that’s what you do when you find someone staring at you, and Mickey quickly darts his eyes away and then starts to try to wiggle over onto his stomach.</p><p>Ian stops him with a gentle hand on his arm.</p><p>“What?” Mickey asks, breathless. Confused.</p><p>“Kinda wanted to do it this way,” Ian replies, working his hips between Mickey’s legs. He stares down at him in question and watches the heat rise in the other man’s cheeks, watches him lick his bottom lip as if unsure.</p><p>“Uh. I mean.” Mickey takes a deep breath, like he’s steeling himself. “‘kay.” </p><p><i>’kay</i>.</p><p>Ian waits for Mickey to get comfortable, head back on the pillows and legs spread. Ian looks around for a moment, considering, before reaching over and grabbing one of the extra pillows, nudging at Mickey’s hips until he lifts up enough to allow Ian to slide it under, propping him up a bit.</p><p>And with a deep breath, his stomach in knots, his heart pounding, Ian works himself inside.</p><p>There’s immediately something different about it.</p><p>It’s the position, sure, the sensations a little different, Mickey’s cock rubbing against Ian’s lower belly when he stretches out over him, the angle of his dick inside him different than what they’re both used to by now.</p><p>More than that, though, it’s the fact that Mickey’s looking at him. Ian fears he might come if he doesn’t stop. He looks away, and then, last resort, buries his face in Mickey’s neck.</p><p>Mickey makes the softest sounds when Ian moves in him, slow at first, then faster. It’s the hottest thing Ian’s ever heard--nothing, absolutely nothing, even remotely comparable. Something about this position and this feeling and those sounds.</p><p>He gets his mouth on Mickey’s neck--kisses at him, licks at him, sucks at him until he remembers he can’t and then pushes up on his arms, upper body raised so he can look down on him instead.</p><p>He wonders if there’ll ever be a time when he’ll be able to give Mickey a hickey--not on purpose, not just as something to do, but something given because he can’t help it, because they were in the moment and everything felt so good, and Ian wanted to taste his skin as he fucked into him.</p><p>He wonders if he’ll always have to stop himself, even if this goes on for a while, because MICK MILK can’t record with his neck marked. He wonders if one day they just won’t care.</p><p>Mickey’s eyes are shut, and he’s breathing heavily out his mouth. Ian watches him, breathing through pursed lips to try to calm down, as he thrusts his hips. Mickey’s body slides up and down by about an inch with each thrust, the movement against the pillow making his hair messy. </p><p>Ian can’t help it. He bends down, touches his mouth to the top of Mickey’s forehead, right at his hairline, and breathes. He doesn’t kiss, doesn’t go for anything they don’t do or Mickey doesn’t want to do. He just smells his hair and feels his sweat against his lips and moves in him harder, harder, and faster.</p><p>Mickey groans, the soft little noises becoming louder and more voiced. Ian pushes back up and about loses it at the pleasured look on his face--twisted up, eyes mere crinkles, teeth showing. </p><p>“Oh, fuck. Fuck,” he whispers, then keens, and Ian drops down so he can lean his weight on his left elbow and slide his arm down between their sweaty bodies to take Mickey’s cock in hand.</p><p>Mickey’s brows shoot up when Ian touches him--when he starts up a series of firm strokes--and Ian finds it precious and beautiful, so much that he dips his head again and kisses him affectionately at his jaw, just once, just because.</p><p>“You like this?” Ian asks, voice a mere breath, and Mickey answers in nothing but a moan and a tight clench around Ian’s cock. Ian speeds up his fist, pulling more and more sounds out of the man beneath him, diving his hips in and in and in, faster, harder, until he thinks he, himself, might die, thinks he might explode, disintegrate, evaporate, turn into a puff of smoke and exit beneath a crack in the door.</p><p>Fuck. <i>Fuck</i>. Ian squeezes his eyes shut, no longer able to look at Mickey, no longer able to do anything but pant and groan and <i>move</i>.</p><p>He feels Mickey start to come--feels it in the tensing of his body, the pulses starting up deep inside him. Hears it in the way his breath hitches, then holds, then starts releasing in voiced puffs, in little <i>ah</i> sounds that make Ian feel like he’s drowning, like he’s dying a great, great, wonderful fucking death.</p><p>“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he murmurs, and Ian opens his eyes for the briefest of seconds, just to see, just to watch as he starts to come undone. “I’m gonna…” Mickey whispers, face screwing up, body beginning to somehow both bow and crumple, and Ian thrusts in and in and in and <i>fuck</i>, okay, yeah, there it is.</p><p>Mickey exhales heavily, going silent and bowstring tense, and Ian’s fist grows warm and wet as he brings Mickey off, the muscles kicking inside him and contractions going and going, squeezing-releasing around Ian’s cock.</p><p>That’s it. That’s fucking it. Ian can’t take it anymore. He buries his face in Mickey’s neck, mouth smooshed up against his hot, sweaty skin, and thrusts a dozen times more before coming harder than he can ever remember.</p><p>The orgasm feels like it lasts forever, the hot, tingly burn of it spreading throughout Ian’s lower extremities, his thighs, behind his knees, his legs down to his ankles, before spilling out and into the condom in a way that feels so good he thinks he might drool a bit on Mickey’s shoulder, his mouth simply unable to close.</p><p>Fuck. Holy fucking fuck.</p><p>He pants, collapsing totally and completely onto Mickey, all his weight on him, all their vulnerable, sensitive parts touching, Mickey’s come between their bellies.</p><p>Fuck.</p><p>Ian does his best to relax there as long as he can. He lets himself melt into the body beneath him, lets himself stay inside him, even as he starts to soften. He can’t help but rest lightly, though, anticipating the moment Mickey shoves him off, tells him to get off him.</p><p>It doesn’t happen.</p><p>Instead, Ian feels a hand touch his lower back in a gentle, awkward little pat--not unlike the pats Mickey bestowed upon Ian’s thigh or his head during their first few encounters. </p><p>Unlike the others, though, this pat isn’t followed by a shove. Mickey relaxes into the mattress, and for the time being, lets Ian lie all over him in a sweaty heap.</p><p>Condoms being what they are, however, Ian does eventually have to pull out. With a groan, he separates them, grabs the base of the condom, and slips free. </p><p>He looks down. They’ve got come drying crusty on their bellies. His pubes are wet with lube from Mickey’s ass. Gross. Ian climbs off the bed on shaky legs and, bypassing the desk with the trusty box of tissues, heads straight for the bathroom.</p><p>He fumbles around like a drunk, disposes of the condom, grabs and wets two washcloths, and uses one to clean himself before bringing the other back for Mickey.</p><p>Mickey’s smoking when Ian makes it over to the bed, using the empty whiskey glass for his ash. In retaliation for countless objects thrown at him, Ian tosses the washcloth onto Mickey’s chest, where it lands with a wet slap.</p><p>Mickey jerks at the cold and complains grumpily around the cigarette before flipping Ian off and scooping up the washcloth. He wipes himself down--even his ass--and whips it back at Ian, who’s prepared enough to dodge it easily.</p><p>“Asshole,” Mickey mumbles, tapping off his cigarette before sticking it back in his mouth and reaching for his phone.</p><p>Ian wanders around naked, pausing to stand by the windows and look out at the lights of a Chicago Christmas night. It’s beautiful. It’s made even more beautiful somehow when Mickey apparently connects his phone to the bluetooth speaker he has on the desk in the corner and starts up <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=avv2IIdDnnk">a dreamy 90s song</a>.</p><p>He’s always surprised by Mickey’s music choices, never able to predict or pin down what he’ll play next. Ian glances at him and finds him smoking with his eyes closed, his phone on the bed beside him. He smiles. Can’t help it.</p><p>After a minute, he goes to grab his backpack, takes out the <i>Irish I Were Drunk</i> shirt and a pair of black sweats. Not the sexiest choices, but he’d been in a hurry.</p><p>He pulls them on and then goes over to join Mickey on the bed.</p><p>“The fuck are you wearin’?” Mickey mumbles sleepily after cracking open an eye.</p><p>Ian chuckles and settles in to tell Mickey the story of job hunting and Pádraic Shenanigan’s. </p><p>“What kinda job ya want?” Mickey asks afterward, voice curious and gentle. He gets rid of his cigarette butt and then tilts his head toward Ian.</p><p>That’s the problem, isn’t it? Ian shrugs. “Don’t know.”</p><p>“Then why’re you lookin’ for somethin’ else?”</p><p>“I dunno. It’s boring. Fuckin’ hate it.”</p><p>“Your sister’s your boss though, man.”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>Kinda the problem sometimes. Mickey nods, apparently picking up on it. “Got it.”</p><p>Ian gestures toward his shirt. “This place opens in February. Figured I’d keep lookin’. If I don’t find anything else, I’ll do it.”</p><p>“This like, long-term, or…”</p><p>“Nah. I dunno. ‘til I figure out what the fuck I wanna do, I guess.”</p><p>Mickey hums and sits up, stretching. Ian watches as he rolls off the bed and heads over to his suitcase. He digs around for a minute and tugs out a <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/a3828f066990faa53b8a145824eaba68/8d32b2877cc6866f-80/s1280x1920/9b7c4b08a43d114af369a57687e26acc6b784113.jpg">black and white tie-dye Metallica shirt</a> and pulls it on with his regular black skinny sweats.</p><p>He walks over to where he’s left the PS5 and gets two controllers from the bag beside it. When he returns to the bed, he suddenly looks Ian up and down and cracks up in a way Ian hasn’t really seen him do ever--like he’s genuinely amused as shit by him.</p><p>“What?” he asks, swiping a hand over his head, smoothing down an Alfalfa hair or something that could’ve made Mickey laugh like that. Dinosaur Jr.’s cover of “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I3eQGBYEFhE">Just Like Heaven</a>” is playing over the bluetooth speaker, and Ian feels light and drunk, flying high off of Mickey’s laugh.</p><p>Mickey smirks and shakes his head, climbing onto the bed beside him. “Can’t take you seriously in that stupid fuckin’ shirt, man.”</p><p>“Oh yeah?” Ian narrows his eyes at him. “Turn on the racing game, bitch, and prepare to get your ass handed to you.” He pulls off his shirt and slings it across the room with an obnoxious pro-wrestler roar.</p><p>“I hate you.”</p><p>“Prove it with a win.”</p><p>“Fuck you.” Mickey turns on the PS5 and the two of them shove at each other childishly as he scrolls through his games and opens up the <i>Sonic</i> one they’d battled over the time before. </p><p>“Prove. It.”</p><p>He does. He sort of slaughters Ian, actually, but then true to form, Ian comes back immediately for not one win but two, which have Mickey steaming, demanding they switch to something else. Cockily, Ian tells him to bring it on, only to get subsequently and quite literally eviscerated in a fighting game that’s so complicated--no more easy button-smash fests--that Ian ends up wrestling Mickey against the pillows rather than allow him a fair win.</p><p>“The fuck is wrong with you?” Mickey shouts, but he’s smiling, and Ian feels his heart pound, peering down at him. Feels his belly swoop. Holy fuck. Holy fucking fuck.</p><p>He's so beautiful. He's beautiful in a way that feels like more than physical appearance, that feels like more than anything Ian's ever known of beauty.</p><p>Ian drags his gaze over the crinkles of his eyes, his teeth, the brilliant upturn of his mouth. Spots the tiny, faded freckles across his nose that he'd love to see in their full glory. And he thinks in that moment, chest filled with helium, <i>What if I kiss him</i>?</p><p>What would happen?</p><p>Ian huffs a breath, and he adjusts the grip of his hands on Mickey's wrists, and-</p><p>He thanks any and all higher power that Mickey’s Spotify starts playing Taylor Swift’s “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zIOVMHMNfJ4">Shake It Off</a>," the familiar percussive beat announcing itself, followed by, <i>I stay out too late</i>. Mickey's eyes go comically wide.</p><p>And it’s so random and unexpected that Ian dies laughing, lets go of his wrists, and rolls off him.</p><p>Fuck.</p><p>Crisis averted. </p><p>Ian pants, cheeks flaming up and heart speeding to the rate of hummingbird wings. Holy fucking fuck.</p><p>He feels like he's just managed to grasp a cliff-ledge, saving himself from plummeting to his death. Feels like he last-second managed to right himself after nearly tipping backward in a chair. Feels like Taylor Swift just saved his life.</p><p>Mickey's saying something beneath the buzzing in Ian's ears, and Ian tilts his head toward him just briefly--just enough to be washed over by a sense of calm born of the beautiful, grumpy goof of a man gesticulating wildly. Look at him. Fucking look at him.</p><p>Ian turns back to the ceiling and can't help but grin as he listens to Mickey scramble to try, unsuccessfully, to convince Ian he doesn’t actually have that song on his Spotify playlist.</p><p>Whatever, Mickey. What-the-fuck-ever.</p><p>Shit.</p><p>He'd almost fucking kissed him. Had been two seconds away from going for it.</p><p>No.

</p><p>Oh no oh no oh no.</p><p>---</p><p>It’s no longer Christmas when they finally climb under the covers. Mickey had eventually relented and had taught Ian, with surprising patience, the best button combinations to defeat an enemy. They’d played a couple rounds, Ian doing much better and Mickey not gloating as much, and then had collapsed on their backs, yawning.</p><p>Ian checks the clock now, snuggled down in the comforter, still shirtless but in his sweats. 1:28. Mickey’s only going to get about three and a half hours of sleep, as he has to get up at five in order to gather his shit and head to the airport.</p><p>He stretches. Sighs. Hears the shifting of Mickey’s legs against the sheets.</p><p>He rolls onto his back for a second, tilting his head toward Mickey, and looks at him. </p><p>He’s wrapped up, the comforter pulled up to his ears and nothing but his face and a little puff of hair visible. </p><p>“Hey,” Ian whispers, and it’s late, sure. No longer Christmas. Hours and hours after he’d said it the last time.</p><p>But when Mickey <i>hmm</i>s, voice sleepy, he still says because he wants to, “Merry Christmas.”</p><p>“It’s not Christmas. Go to sleep.”</p><p>Ian smiles. “Night.”</p><p>Nothing but an annoyed grumble comes from the lump of blankets. Ian twists back to face the opposite direction and shuts his eyes.</p><p>And he’s just about to drift, his body feeling floaty and warm, when he feels a gentle kick to his foot and a whispered, “Merry Christmas.”</p><p>---</p><p>Ian’s half out of it when Mickey gets up to his alarm just a few hours later, only having enough life in him to crack open an eyelid to check the time. </p><p>He must pass out again immediately after, as the next thing he remembers is opening his eyes to find that nearly half an hour has passed. Mickey’s talking to him.</p><p>“Hm?” he asks, yawning, figuring he should get up and start gathering his shit.</p><p>“Hey, stay in bed,” Mickey murmurs. He feels a hand on his arm and, well, whatever. He relaxes back into the pillows. “Check out’s at eleven. Get room service or whatever you want.”</p><p>Mickey’s wandering around now, and Ian can hear the sound of a bag zipping. </p><p>He thinks he might respond, “‘kay,” but he can’t be sure. </p><p>In fact, he can’t be sure of a lot of things this early in the morning. </p><p>He can’t be sure whether he’s actually asleep or awake, for one. </p><p>For another, he can’t be sure whether or not he hears Mickey murmur, “Later, Ian,” his voice soft, soothing, as if he perceives Ian to be safely ensconced in sleep.</p><p>He can’t be sure whether he feels the bed dip briefly near his legs, then, and he can’t be sure, though he holds his breath when he wakes up a few hours later, hoping it was real, hoping it wasn’t a fucking dream, that he’d felt Mickey press a quick kiss to his hair before he got up to leave.</p><p>Something he is sure of, though, is that Fiona was right when she said that friends with benefits situations are doomed to fail because one person always catches feelings.</p><p>And as Ian stands in front of the bathroom mirror that morning, looking over the ridiculous hickey and remembering in vivid detail the past 36 hours, he’s as sure as he’s ever been sure of anything in his life that <i>the one person</i> is himself.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Some fun facts for Chapter 5:<br/>-Title comes from "Just Like Heaven" by The Cure. I love The Cure and do not personally think the Dinosaur Jr. cover is better; however, I do think Mickey would like it and would have it on his playlist.</p><p>-Please check out <a href="https://wolfestw.tumblr.com/post/641153601198309376/">this incredible art</a> of MICK MILK created by wolfestw on Tumblr. I'm blown away. Amazing.</p><p>-<i>Fright Night</i> is the name of MICK MILK’s livestreams on Twitch. He streams at least twice per week in four hour periods--a mix of afternoon and night streams that he announces ahead of time on social media.</p><p>-Since Ian’s arrest and admittance to the psych ward happened when he was a minor, I think that technically those records would be sealed (?) and therefore wouldn’t show up on a background check. However, Rita found out about it in s7 through a background check, so I’m going to go with Rhonda being able to potentially do the same thing.</p><p>-I went back to Chapter 4 and modified what I said about Ian’s Twitter profile, removing the reference to him making his profile photo a picture of himself. I also removed the manip I made revealing that he made his display name <i>Ian</i>. After reviewing my outline, I realized I’d jumped the gun a little on that, as it’s too soon for it.</p><p>-Mickey isn't so famous that he can't go most places without being recognized. Most people who would ever recognize him are under the age of 30, and even then, it's only going to be people who are familiar with YouTubers by sight, which is really a smaller group of people than you'd think. I'm sort of looking at this from my own perspective, which is that of someone who watches YouTubers and YouTube pretty much every day of her life and yet only knows some YouTubers by name but couldn't identify them on sight. I think it's fairly realistic that Mickey would be able to live a relatively normal life in most locations--especially those that tend to be patronized by primarily older people or folks who don't likely watch YouTube a lot.</p><p>-Mickey hitting Ian in the face with various items of clothing and almost hitting him in the gut and dick with bottles of water will never get old.</p><p>-Mandy doesn't remember Ian from Mickey's Instagram post, as really, Mickey has a lot of fans, and Mandy doesn't really care that much to memorize all their faces. </p><p>-Mickey 100% has "Shake It Off" by Taylor Swift on one of his Spotify playlists. As he should.<br/> </p><p>Thanks so much for reading!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Feet on the Ground, Head in the Sky</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>For the first time, Ian lets himself like Mickey in all ways, in intimate ways, no-holds-barred, and it feels like getting into a box of matches--like lighting one, squeezing the stick between thumb and forefinger and watching the flame burn slowly, steadily closer, the approaching heat beginning to sting at his nail beds.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I think this is the fluffiest chapter so far, but never fear angst fans. We're not done with that. Just taking a break while Ian's place in Mickey's world expands.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>At the dawn of the new year, Ian feels a warmth in his belly he finally allows himself to acknowledge for what it is. </p><p>Following those two days spent together at Christmas, he watches Mickey’s livestreams and leaves messages in the chat, comments on his Let’s Plays, and finally acquiesces to the sizzle in his blood, the electric jolt up and down his spine from appreciating Mickey’s quirked eyebrows, the sweet twist of his mouth, his wry grumbles and comically frustrated stares. </p><p>He allows himself to <i>like him</i>. </p><p>Ian allows himself to lose his cool to the memory of the little kick he’d given him in bed.</p><p><i>Merry Christmas</i>.</p><p>To the faint, wisp of a memory of the pressure of lips against Ian’s head, just at his hairline.</p><p>For the first time, Ian lets himself like Mickey in all ways, in intimate ways, no-holds-barred, and it feels like getting into a box of matches--like lighting one, squeezing the stick between thumb and forefinger and watching the flame burn slowly, steadily closer, the approaching heat beginning to sting at his nail beds.</p><p>He used to play with fire as a kid; it wasn’t only Carl. </p><p>He and Lip used to sit out on the back porch steps learning tricks with a scuffed Zippo, childish lips pinched around cigarettes they were too young to be puffing and giggling clouds of smoke as they tried to snap-spark the flame like they’d seen on <i>Reservoir Dogs</i>. </p><p>At thirteen, he’d sat in the living room in one of his teenage middle-child moods, lighting half a box of matches and flipping them one-by-one into a water glass, not moving fast enough when he missed and leaving behind scorch marks on the coffee table he peered at with indifference. </p><p>Once, when he was ten, he’d set Mr. Mazeika’s flower bed on fire as a diversion, allowing Lip to climb in his window and steal back a pair of Nerf guns the old man had confiscated because the two of them had been shooting foam darts at his windows. They’d saved all summer for those guns, and Ian’d been pissed that day. The fire had felt like vindication. Served him right, the crabby old man. He and Lip had laughed their asses off once they’d made it back around to their house, hearing Mr. Mazeika yelling, “Goddamn fucking kids!” as he scrambled for his tangled garden hose.</p><p>Ian feels like he’s playing with fire again as he fully settles into the flip of his belly over Mickey, not trying to suppress, not talking himself out of it--simply letting it happen.</p><p>He’d burned the shit out of his fingers that day with the lighter, overcome with boyish confidence. The other time, he’d severely miss-aimed one of his lit matches, the stick bouncing off the side of the water glass and landing on his bare foot. Mr. Mazeika had reported the Gallaghers to DCFS, a long time coming, resulting in a series of home visits and sixteen-year-old Fiona’s harried attempts to get Frank sober enough to keep the kids from getting hauled away.</p><p>Ian can’t help but wonder--as he scrolls through Mickey’s Instagram posts, reads his tweets, and listens to him comment on the <i>janky-ass</i> graphics of a game he’s playing--when he’s going to get burned this time. If it’ll be a little sting, a suffocating smoulder, or an all-consuming flame, leaving him nothing but ash.</p><p>Liking--<i>truly</i> liking--Mickey feels risky.</p><p>He smokes while sitting in bed, back to the wall, and watches the cherry of his cigarette flame up orange with an inhale--watches the tiniest bit of ash drop onto the fabric of his gray sweats, turning to a black smear when he rubs at it absently.</p><p>He lets the heat in his belly sizzle as he taps the Twitter link to MICK MILK’s first livestream of 2021.</p><p>Fuck. Sometimes he loves a risk. Zippo lighters. Lit matches. Light arson.</p><p>Mickey Milkovich.</p><p>Ian tunes into the livestream just as “Bullet With Butterfly Wings” is ending. </p><p>Mickey’s slouched in his gaming chair, drinking coffee and squinting at the chat, his white headphones askew on his head--on one ear and off the other. He’s got on a <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/2b7d9bd65fe2b1881238d043fe510376/e01b7f839412b856-a5/s500x750/c1de13a1aa93cde82f60e0d6a690cbdd01f7d0f8.jpg">pink and navy leaf-print button-down</a> with an unzipped black hoodie-jacket overtop, the sleeves scrunched up around the elbows. When he stands for a minute to fix something with his camera, Ian sees his shirt has the final fourth of the buttons undone, one side stylishly tucked into a pair of black joggers in a way that would make some people look sloppy but that makes Mickey look cool as fuck.</p><p>Ian allows himself to just <i>look at him</i>. To admire. To enjoy the resulting warmth.</p><p>When the song’s over, Mickey greets his audience with that same bored “Waaaassup,” like it’s necessary to spend two full seconds holding on to the first syllable.</p><p>He sips his coffee for a while, sniffs, and intones, “Happy New Year, motherfuckers,” then begins his routine chat skim, giving out personalized <i>hey</i>s to random people and answering a few questions as he scrolls.</p><p>“What’s my New Year’s resolution?” Mickey smirks after reading Hollandaisy’s question. He rolls a few feet away in his chair, dipping out of view of the camera for a moment, and returns with a bottle of beer he proceeds to open skillfully against the edge of his desk. “To quit drinking.”</p><p>He takes a swig that at first bulges his cheeks, swallows, then reads more of the chat with a smile on his lips, clearly amused with himself.</p><p>“Hey to uh, TessTickle.” He blinks. “Dumbass.” Scrolls. “Mr. Hammerhead wants to know what was my Game of the Year. Umm. Definitely <i>The Last of Us Part II</i>, hands fuckin’ down, man. It wasn’t perfect structurally and some people shit on it ‘cause they’re closed-minded fucks, but it was ballsy as hell from a storytelling perspective and the gameplay was top notch.”</p><p>Mickey sucks his bottom lip into his mouth as he reads more of the chat. “Hey to SilverSquirrel. Uh, they wanna know do I play <i>Among Us</i>. Yeah, sometimes. Not like, for streams or whatever. It’s only fun if you got good crewmates, though. Don’t play it with random people. It sucks.” There’s a pause while he reads responses in the chat. “Would I ever play with fans? I dunno. Prob’ly not.”</p><p>He drums his fingers against the side of the beer bottle, eyes scanning for a new question, then rolls his eyes. “I think some a’you motherfuckers need to have <i>stop askin’ personal questions to people I don’t know</i> as a New Year’s Resolution.”</p><p>Ian swipes over to peruse the chat, which is moving almost too quickly to read, users reacting to Mickey’s comment with variations on <i>period</i>. </p><p>He considers asking a question--taps into the chat box and starts to type out <i>What’s your favorite horror movie?</i>--but ultimately decides on sending through his trademark sunglasses emoji instead.</p><p>And he’s not expecting Mickey to see it, as even on his own screen, it’s immediately buried under a deluge of <i>do u have a gf???</i> and <i>hey bestie</i> and <i>you should do a stream where you play among us with some of us</i> 👉👈 and <i>What’s your favorite swear word?</i></p><p>“My favorite swear word’s pretty obviously ‘fuck,’ man.” Mickey taps his temple twice--<i>think!</i>--then pauses for a second, just enough to indicate something’s bouncing around in his head. </p><p>He licks his lips and mutters, “Uh, hey to Ginger Asshole.”</p><p>Ian does a quick scroll to make sure there isn’t actually anyone in the chat with the username <b>GingerAsshole</b>, and upon finding nothing, lets himself grin, his heart beating rapidly and belly giving a little flip.</p><p>It makes him want to actually ask his question, suddenly feeling desperate to connect with him--suddenly <i>missing him</i> in some strange way--even though it’s just been a little over a week since Christmas.</p><p>He retypes his question and has his finger poised to tap <i>return</i> when Mickey unexpectedly switches the display over to the menu for a game called <i>The Medium</i>.</p><p>“Okay, okay, enough with the questions,” he grumbles. “Let’s do this shit.”</p><p>The game’s actually really fucking interesting, not to mention creepy, and Ian stretches out on his back in bed and watches it like a movie.</p><p>It’s about a medium named Marianne who is summoned to a vacation resort and, with the aid of a creepy-ass little ghost girl, unravels a mystery surrounding her own origins while occasionally being stalked by a creature called the Maw.</p><p>As he plays, Mickey isn’t at all shy about his theories, seemingly unafraid to be wrong or, Ian thinks, too enticed by the possibility of publicly calling the twist at the end before it happens. He pauses the game several times throughout the session and confidently explains what he thinks is happening in near-monotone, like he’s <i>obviously</i> figured it out.</p><p>It’s obnoxious in a way his fans seem to love, telling him in the chat--probably wryly--that he’s a big-brained genius. It reminds Ian of when they’d played the fighting game together and Mickey’d acted like Ian was the worst gamer in the world for not being able to win a match on hard difficulty level with an opponent who plays video games for a living.</p><p>
  <i>Like, <b>obviously</b> you do blah, blah, blah and then a twirl-kick and then cut my head off with the fuckin’ katana, man.</i>
</p><p>Ian’d wrestled him into the pillows after that. </p><p>And that’s when he’d desperately wanted to kiss him.</p><p>Ian still thinks about it over a week later, completely removed from the circumstances. Even if they hadn’t been interrupted by Taylor Swift, Ian doesn’t think he would’ve actually leaned down for it. But he’d <i>wanted to</i>. In that moment, it’d felt like he <i>could</i>, Mickey pinned by the wrists, his dark hair messy against the pillow and eyes so blue.</p><p>He’d wanted to kiss the cocky little smirk off his face--wipe away that playful gamer god attitude he had going.</p><p>Ian’s cheeks warm now as he watches him, just done with his latest overconfident prediction, unpause the game. </p><p>Mickey chews at his bottom lip as he enters a section that marks another stealth confrontation with the Maw, and Ian can’t help but think about that mouth on his neck, sucking the hickey onto his throat that’s just now started to fade and that’s gotten him numerous stares and teasing comments from people at work, who all think he’s got a boyfriend.</p><p>Yeah. Never gonna happen. He’d shrugged it off. Didn’t say anything. Eventually, everyone’d left him alone about it, and Ian’d vowed that if Mickey ever gave him another visible hickey, he was giving him one right back, celebrity be damned.</p><p>Ian stares at Mickey’s neck. Watches him swallow heavily, his Adam’s apple bobbing, then sees the tendons shift and pop out as he makes an irritated sound, the Maw unexpectedly capturing Marianne in his clutches.</p><p>“Fuck you,” Mickey complains to no-one in particular--the game, the Maw, himself--before restarting the section.</p><p>Too confidently bold with Marianne, he gets caught again, the Maw gripping the character around the neck. </p><p>Mickey gets frustrated, his brows lowering and the skin between bunching up in a way that makes him look like an angry toddler.</p><p>Ian smiles and, seeing a way to tease, a way to poke, swipes over to the chat and types, <i>Wow that sucks, Mick. SHAKE IT OFF, you’ll do better next time.</i></p><p>As it’s an hour into the stream, the chat’s lost some of its energy, the viewer count having dropped to several hundred rather than over a thousand and most of the current viewers focused on watching the game. Ian’s message sticks front and center for a minute--for long enough that Mickey’s able to catch it while he’s on a loading screen.</p><p>Ian hadn’t thought to predict how he would react, and his limbs go a little wobbly when Mickey suddenly grins, teeth showing with it, and bites his lip a little like he’s holding in a laugh.</p><p>“Fuck off,” he whispers, so low it’s obvious he’s not meaning it for the viewers’ ears, before schooling his expression entirely and beginning back up the game.</p><p>Over the next half hour before the break, Ian tries to work in as many “Shake It Off” references as he can, even stooping to googling the lyrics so he has plenty to work with.</p><p>To Mickey being caught twice more by the Maw, Ian sends, <i>Guess he can’t stop won’t stop moving, huh?</i> and then <i>It’s gonna be alright</i>.</p><p>When he’s finally successful, maneuvering Marianne down a long, dark, moth-filled tunnel, Ian types, <i>Damn! You’re lightning on your feet!</i></p><p>Sending the messages makes Ian feel giddy and stupid, like he’s playing around with a friend. </p><p>And that’s what it is, huh? They’re friends. Ian’d introduced Mickey to his family as his friend; without objection, he’d introduced himself to Mandy as Mickey’s friend. </p><p>
  <i>They’ve met each other’s families.</i>
</p><p>Ian thinks about this fact as he watches Mickey pause the game and lean backward in his chair, arms over his head, stretching. He cracks his knuckles, and Ian sees his thumbnail is fully and freshly painted.</p><p>“Alright, let’s take a break,” Mickey says, clicking around on his computer, the game disappearing and being replaced by his black and electric yellow break screen, the timer frozen at 10:00.</p><p>Typically, he’ll immediately start up his “I Believe in a Thing Called Love” fan video. This time, however, Ian watches as Mickey mutes himself and then, still on camera, spends the next three minutes typing and setting something up.</p><p>Ian wasn’t sure whether Mickey had seen any of his Taylor-inspired messages following the first, as he’d never again visibly reacted. But he gets his answer after one final mouse click from Mickey, the break countdown screen refreshing with a little blip and the timer starting up along with a song.</p><p>“Shake It Off.”</p><p>Mickey smirks into the camera and then cuts the feed, and Ian has to bring his fist to his mouth, biting down on the fleshy bit on the side of his finger to stifle a huge, childish grin.</p><p>Holy fuck, Mickey.</p><p>Without thinking twice, he pulls up iMessage.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (10:38 PM):</b> Players gonna play?</p><p><b>Mickey (10:38 PM):</b> 🖕</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Fucking dork.</p><p>Because MICK MILK’s who he is, all the fans in the chat just think he’s being ironic. Ian reads the fast-paced flood of messages and emojis, feeling silly and proud that he’s got this inside joke with Mickey, and waits for the timer to finish its countdown.</p><p>---</p><p>The stream is over at just after midnight, Mickey telling the viewers that’s all he’s allowed to play until the game is released later in the month. He says his goodbyes, thanking everyone for sticking around, then cuts his camera and plays Still Woozy’s “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=djzpmgnFGcs">Rocky</a>” while his social media handles and the link to his merch site are displayed on the screen.</p><p>Ian goes to the bathroom and gets ready for bed, then crawls under the covers and stretches out on his back, holding his phone up over his face.</p><p>His younger brothers have already come in and gone to sleep--Liam about two hours ago, dressed in his coordinated pajamas, and later Carl, who’d merely stripped down to his boxers, climbed up on his bunk, and collapsed into his pillow after a long day of whatever the hell he’d been up to. Their breaths are soft <i>shhh</i>shes in the darkness, and Ian relaxes into it.</p><p>He bites his lip and considers for a moment--letting roll across his mind all the implications, all the possibilities, the <i>what if</i>s and the <i>should I</i>s.</p><p>Finally, biting the bullet, he opens up his text thread with Mickey.</p><p>He knows he’d told Mickey a couple months ago that he’d only text him about their hook-ups, but whatever. He’s already texted him tonight. Might as well do it again.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (12:19 AM):</b> You didn’t do the IBIATCL thing</p><p><b>Mickey (12:20 AM):</b> so?</p><p><b>Ian (12:20 AM):</b> It’s the best part of your stream</p><p><b>Mickey (12:20 AM):</b> fuck you, no it’s not</p><p><b>Mickey (12:21 AM):</b> your fault anyway</p><p><b>Ian (12:21AM):</b> I was just giving you encouragement using your favorite song of all time. It’s not my fault you’re a secret Swiftie.</p><p><b>Mickey (12:22 AM):</b> stfu</p><p><b>Ian (12:22 AM):</b> ✌</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Ian puts his phone under his pillow and falls asleep with a smile on his face.</p><p>---<br/>
---</p><p>To his surprise, they start to text occasionally after that. It’s never a long, drawn-out conversation--always just a three-to-five minute exchange, typically about something specific--but it makes Ian’s heart soar at the knowledge that the two of them have even that tiny extra connection outside their hook-ups.</p><p>During the “I Believe in a Thing Called Love” portion of Mickey’s second stream of the year, Ian heads to the kitchen to heat up some leftover macaroni when Mickey texts him.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Mickey (11:01 PM):</b> hope you’re enjoying your favorite part of the entire fuckin stream</p><p><b>Ian (11:01 PM):</b> 😎</p><p><b>Mickey (11:02 PM):</b> still waitin on your dance video btw</p><p><b>Mickey (11:02 PM):</b> you can tag me on ig or send it to my business gmail</p><p><b>Ian (11:03 PM):</b> In your dreams</p><p><b>Ian (11:03 PM):</b> Maybe I’ll send you one after you follow me</p><p><b>Mickey (11:04 PM):</b> never gonna happen</p><p><b>Ian (11:04 PM):</b> Well then there’s your answer 😏</p><p>------------------------<br/>
---</p><p>That week, Ian and Liam are playing the motorcycle racing game on PS5, killing time on a Friday night when Ian’s off for once and it’s just the two of them hanging out at home, sharing a bowl of Cheetos.</p><p>“Gettin’ pretty good,” Ian praises when his little brother nearly beats him twice in a row, their fully-customized motorcycles battling it out in the final stretch to the finish line.</p><p>“Yeah, that’s what Mickey said.” Liam’s sporting an even, confident expression, like his improvement is irrefutable fact.</p><p>It’s cute to Ian how he calls him <i>Mickey</i> now and still, almost three weeks after Christmas, name drops him multiple times per day. He’s happy for him, and it makes him feel good that his little brother’s got something cool in his life, even if the kids at school had called him a liar when he’d told them MICK MILK had eaten Christmas lunch at his house.</p><p>Liam, like the other Gallaghers before him, doesn’t have a hell of a lot of friends, Jacob really being the only kid he talks to with any regularity. It sucks that he got to have that experience but has no one to share it with and no evidence to prove it ever took place, Mickey having gently turned down his selfie requests and Ian having threatened him with nonsensical claims about contracts in order to keep him from trying to go live with him on his Instagram.</p><p>Even little Jacob, when he’d been at their house the week before, had seemed incredulous about the whole thing. He and Liam had played the motorcycle game and Liam had showed him Mickey’s save file as if it belonged in a museum. Ian had been in the kitchen at the time, and he’d just glanced into the living room in time to catch Jacob saying, “Whoa, that’s cool,” his face pinched in a way that indicated he wasn’t sure whether or not Liam was just playing around.</p><p>To be fair, it does sound like a lie and exactly the kind that a nine-year-old would tell their school friends in an effort to get attention. It’s the whole, <i>I’m dating someone but they go to another school</i> lie, impressive and conveniently removed from the listeners’ day-to-day existence to the point that the liar can’t be proven false.</p><p>Ian had considered coming to his defense, and maybe he should’ve, but he was also feeling a little weird about it and had even thought about telling Liam to keep their Christmas with MICK MILK a secret.</p><p>But the bottom line was that Mickey hadn’t said anything about it--hadn’t told Ian to make sure the kid didn’t squeal--and if he’s honest, Ian’d probably been relying on the <i>it sounds like a lie</i> thing to keep the situation safe, even if that does make him a bit of an asshole.</p><p>“Did you like hangin’ out with MICK MILK?” Ian asks now, setting down the controller and reaching into the bowl between them for a handful of crunchy Cheetos.</p><p>“Yeah, he’s cool. He’s really nice in real life.”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“Am I gonna get to see him again?”</p><p>Ian gives Liam a poke in the side. “I dunno, bud. Maybe.”</p><p>“Hope so. I wanna kick his <i>ass</i> at motocross.” Liam rarely swears, and the funny, awkward emphasis he’d placed on the word makes Ian snort--that tiny little kid so determined to beat Mickey at racing. </p><p>“You and me both,” he says.</p><p>If there’s one silly thing Ian loves, it’s beating Mickey Milkovich at a video game.</p><p>They each grab one more handful of Cheetos, shove them in their mouths, and start back up the game.</p><p>After another half hour in which Liam’s finally managed to beat Ian not once but twice, Ian takes out his phone while Liam’s putting the system to sleep, storing away the controllers, and locking the PlayStation cabinet Lip had put together to prevent fucking Frank from hauling it off to a pawn shop for booze money.</p><p>He opens up his texts, taps his fingers against the sides of his phone, and with pursed lips, sends Mickey a message.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (7:14 PM):</b> Don’t think I thanked you before for being nice to Liam. You kinda made his whole life.</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Mickey doesn’t text back for another hour, and by then, Ian’s bundled up on the front porch steps, smoking.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Mickey (8:21 PM):</b> not a problem, he’s a good kid.</p><p><b>Ian (8:21 PM):</b> Yeah, he is</p><p>------------------------</p><p>He leaves it at that, figuring Mickey’s busy. Maybe recording. It’s almost half-past six in LA, so maybe he’s getting ready to go somewhere for dinner. Maybe he’s with friends. Shit, maybe he’s got a date.</p><p>It is Friday night, after all.</p><p>Ian stretches his legs out on the steps below him and blows a stream of smoke into the darkness, illuminated only by the faint glow of streetlights. He hears a gunshot somewhere in the distance.</p><p>Mr. Mazeika across the street has all his lights on, and every now and again, a slowly-moving shadow passes by the window he and Lip used to shoot darts at--a hunched old man pushing a walker.</p><p>Ian finishes up his cigarette and stubs it out on the step beside him, then flicks the butt aimlessly into the yard. And he’s about to stand and go inside when he receives another text.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Mickey (8:29 PM):</b> hey, what’s your address?</p><p><b>Ian (8:30 PM):</b> 2119 N. Wallace, Chicago, 60619</p><p><b>Ian (8:30 PM):</b> Why?</p><p><b>Mickey (8:31 PM):</b> got some new merch, was gonna send something to your brother</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Ian’s heart feels like it grows three sizes. He leans over his knees and blows out a breath that’s a puff of smoke in the freezing air.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (8:31 PM):</b> You don’t have to do that.</p><p><b>Mickey (8:32 PM):</b> yeah i know. figured i would tho, few less items for fuckers to buy up and sell on ebay for twice the price.</p><p><b>Ian (8:32 PM):</b> Well thanks, that’s nice of you. It’ll make him happy. 😊</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Part of Ian wants to tell Mickey that he hadn’t meant his thanks from earlier to come across as an outstretched hand, as a hint, a <i>you should do nice things for my little brother because you’re famous and he likes you.</i> Ultimately, he leaves the conversation as it is, standing up and heading into the house to get out of the cold. </p><p>Mickey’s being kind because he’s probably a genuinely good person, and the understanding of that makes Ian like him just a little bit more.</p><p>---<br/>
---</p><p>Ian works all day Saturday, from sun-up to sun-down because one of their waitresses had a court hearing, another called in sick, and Fiona desperately needed a hand.</p><p>He’s bored out of his mind, but he makes do, clears tables and washes dishes for part of his day, then switches to a clean, dry apron and waits on customers for the remainder of the afternoon.</p><p>At just after three, during a lull in customers, when all that’s going on is bitching in the kitchen and a few rowdy high schoolers talking loudly and shooting straw wrappers at each other over in the corner booth, someone walks in that Ian hadn’t been expecting to ever see again, really.</p><p>He’s leaning casually on the counter up front, eating a chicken sandwich on his break, when the bell rings and in walks Mandy Milkovich looking the kind of grungy cool you’d expect out of a 90s teenager at an alt-rock concert.</p><p>She’s got on a black coat unzipped over an oversized <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/0f625409f97e7d18b3656000517baf14/86976ba681e7d275-8b/s540x810/b0a66587c7facbe580a9f8076d7a28e9864cfc2a.jpg">Nirvana shirt</a> that’s big enough to be a short dress, artfully ripped tights, and scuffed Docs with mismatched laces. There’s a backpack slung over her shoulder, and she looks like she’s still wearing yesterday’s makeup, her mascara smudged under her eyes, giving her a general tired appearance.</p><p>“Mandy,” Ian greets her, sounding as if the wind’s been knocked out of him, coming around the counter to help her out. </p><p>She lifts one hand and points a finger gun at him, face lighting up with a beautiful smile. “Ian.”</p><p>He gets her seated and brings her coffee, feeling a bit like she’s the fucking Queen of England. <i>Nightmare Hour</i> royalty. He has the strangest desire to impress her.</p><p>“So what brings you here?” he asks, too formal. Stupid as shit.</p><p>Slouching, he tries to appear as casual as possible, leaning against the booth on the other side of her but not daring to sit.</p><p>Mandy shrugs and reaches for her backpack, which she proceeds to unzip. Pulling out a few books and a laptop, she says, “The guy I’m hookin’ up with lives a block over. I have a paper due Monday and had to get outta his house to concentrate.” </p><p>Ian smirks at her, and she bounces her eyebrows and smiles back in a way that reminds him just how comfortable he’d actually felt with her at the Chinese restaurant, where she’d asked him all about his life and then hugged him as they parted ways.</p><p>“Lemme get you some pie on the house,” he says, straightening and taking a few steps toward the front. “Got a preference?”</p><p>Mandy asks for chocolate pie, and Ian brings her a slice with a smile and a “Just wave me down if you need anything else.”</p><p>And he’s turning to head back to the kitchen when Mandy reaches out and takes his wrist in a gentle hold. “Hey,” she says, voice a little soft like she’s unsure. “You got a second?”</p><p>“Uh, yeah, sure.” Ian has a seat across from her and sits awkwardly with his hands in his lap. “What’s up?”</p><p>“Just wanted to like, thank you. Y’know. For taking care of my brother on Christmas.”</p><p>Ian hadn’t had time to wonder what Mandy was going to say before she said it, but the sincere thanks still somehow comes across as the opposite of what he was expecting, as if he’d planned out an entire conversation in his head beforehand only to have it derailed from the jump.</p><p>It leaves him unmoored. He fidgets, eyes landing on the stack of psychology books on the table: <i>Abnormal Psychology: An Integrative Approach</i>, <i>Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders</i>, <i>Mad in America: Bad Science, Bad Medicine, and the Enduring Mistreatment of the Mentally Ill</i>. That makes him feel even weirder. He looks back to her face.</p><p>“Yeah,” he says, nodding. “Of course.”</p><p>Mandy reaches for the box of sweeteners, ripping three stevia packets in half and dumping them in her coffee. She picks up the fork Ian’s stabbed into her slice of pie, licks it clean, and uses it to stir.</p><p>“I don’t know how much he’s told you, so I’m not gonna, y’know, like, expose him or whatever, but.” She takes a careful sip of her coffee and then reaches for a creamer. “He’s, uh, not okay a lot of the time after seein’ Dad, and I was worried about him.”</p><p>Ian presses his lips together and gets his elbows on the table, clasping his hands in front of him. He wonders how much it’s okay to tell her. How much he should keep a secret.</p><p>“He was really upset Christmas Eve,” he settles on, deciding not to go into detail, wanting to protect Mickey and respect his privacy, even when talking to his sister. “He didn’t tell me much, but yeah. He wasn’t having a good night.”</p><p>Mandy studies Ian with her big blue eyes as if having the same wonderings: <i>how much can I tell him?</i> </p><p>Finally, she looks away, stirs the creamer into her coffee, and then seems to settle in to enjoying it along with her pie. </p><p>“Our dad’s a piece of shit,” she says after a minute, mouth full of pie as if she’d waited until precisely the moment she was eating to speak. “The cancer thing. A long time coming but like, it’s really hard, y’know. To deal with.”</p><p>“You live with him?”</p><p>“Yeah, when I’m not at Hunter’s. Somebody’s gotta take care of him.”</p><p>It’s not Ian’s place to say anything, he knows. Mickey’d clearly not been happy with her living with him--even offering to get him a nurse and her a Northside apartment. He’s also not sure it’s his place to ask questions about the specifics of his diagnosis. They’re not close yet, after all, just yoked together by circumstance.</p><p>Instead, he gives Mandy the chance to elaborate, but she doesn’t--just eats her pie and sips her coffee.</p><p>“Anyway,” she finally says after a couple minutes of loaded but surprisingly unawkward silence. “Thanks for bein’ there for him. We hate each other half the time, but I don’t want him to be, y’know.” She shrugs, not finishing her thought.</p><p>Ian nods at her. “Any time. He’s my friend.”</p><p>Mandy gives him a look then, and it’s conspiratorial but in a way Ian can’t quite figure out.</p><p>Someone calls him from the kitchen. </p><p>He stands, murmurs, “What?”</p><p>“Nothing.” Mandy shrugs and opens up her laptop.</p><p>---</p><p>She sticks around for a few hours--long enough for Ian to bring her dinner. </p><p>They chat casually every time he checks on her--about random things, <i>light</i> things. Her classes. Her paper. Her not-boyfriend Hunter. What Ian’d like to do with his life and the fact that though Mandy’s going on two years into a bachelor’s degree, she’s no further along than Ian when it comes to her own plans for the future.</p><p>He likes her. </p><p>She’s smart and world-weary like Mickey but more smiley and chatty. She tends to speak before she thinks when they’re talking about things of little importance, and she has no problem, even after talking to Ian for probably only a collective hour total, calling him a “butthole” when he gets up to help another customer. </p><p>She leaves at a little before seven, asking Ian his Sunday hours and saying she’ll be back to finish her paper the next day.</p><p>“You just want me to give you free pie, huh?” he teases, leaning over the counter near the cash register.</p><p>“So sue me if I need the sugar to keep me going!”</p><p>They smile at each other fondly as she slings her bag over her shoulder and backs her way out of Patsy’s. </p><p>In a way, it feels like he’s made a friend for life.</p><p>He considers texting Mickey about it that night, telling him he’d hung out with his sister for almost four hours and plans to do it again the next day. Telling him that he likes her, that he thinks he has a new friend.</p><p>He decides against it, wondering if it’d make him uncomfortable, thinking Ian was trying to get close with his family for some weird, fan-related reason.</p><p>Turns out, he needn’t have bothered with the caution, as the next day, everything goes all fucking bonkers, anyway.</p><p>---</p><p>Ian works from lunch to after the dinner rush. Mandy comes in at just after noon and works steadily on her paper, only taking breaks for coffee refills and quick conversation. </p><p>She’s more studious today, wearing a pair of round Ray-Ban eyeglasses that make her look like a Harry Potter cosplayer, her hair up in a bun and her sweater a conservative, deep gray V-neck.</p><p>Her professor hates her, she claims, having Ian look over the draft of her five-page research report.</p><p>“He thinks I’m not trying, which sucks because I’m actually trying like, really fucking hard.”</p><p>The paper’s on the stigmatization of mood disorders among low socioeconomic groups and how that impacts diagnosis and treatment. Ian blanches a bit at it but skims it anyway, trying not to let his emotions show.</p><p>It’s a basic research paper rather than an argumentative one, so he doesn’t question her facts and focuses mainly on editing out her grammar mistakes, which are numerous, though she’s clearly working her ass off on it and has a solid approach to her topic.</p><p>“They wanted to test me for dyslexia in fifth grade,” Mandy explains, elbow to the table and head resting on her palm as she watches Ian fix her errors. Ian pauses his typing and turns to look at her, raising an eyebrow to prompt her to continue.</p><p>She shrugs. “Milkoviches don’t get tested.” </p><p>It sounds like a quote or like a fucking <i>mantra</i>, and Ian thinks about Mickey’s bottle of Zoloft and wonders how long he’d been struggling with whatever he has before he was finally able to get help.</p><p>“Then in middle school, they tried to get us on these education plan things, but nobody’d show up to the scheduled meetings, so they gave up.” </p><p>The fact that she uses <i>us</i> isn’t lost on Ian, but he doesn’t ask her to clarify. He tells her that her paper’s good, and she finishes, “But my grammar sucks.”</p><p>Ian shrugs at her. “Not anymore.” He finishes up the last few sentences and slides her laptop back in front of her.</p><p>After skimming her own paper, her cheeks flushing up in a way that reminds Ian of Mickey, Mandy leans in and kisses his cheek. </p><p>“You’re my fucking hero, Ian...Whatever-Your-Last-Name-Is.”</p><p>“Gallagher.”</p><p>“Ian Gallagher.”</p><p>Ian smiles at her warmly and climbs out of the booth. He has a little more than an hour left in his shift, and he can practically feel his sister’s eyes on him from behind the counter.</p><p>“Hey,” Mandy says, stopping him from leaving. “You wanna go get dinner when you get off?”</p><p>Something shifts in Ian’s chest. “Uh, yeah,” he agrees, tapping her table twice. “Gimme about an hour.”</p><p>---</p><p>“Do you have a girlfriend now?” Fiona asks when he’s back behind the counter, giving him a teasing hip-bump.</p><p>Ian shakes his head and starts to towel down the bar. “It’s Mickey’s sister, Mandy.”</p><p>“<i>Really</i>?”</p><p>“Shut up.”</p><p>“Gettin’ cozy with the family?” She winks at him, and Ian rolls his eyes, not dignifying that with a response.</p><p>---</p><p>After his shift, he pulls on his coat, and he and Mandy set off for the pizza joint down the block that he’d once considered as a job option.</p><p>Mandy links her arm with his like they’re a pair of Victorian pals strolling the streets of London on a fine spring morning rather than a pair of hoodrat nineteen-year-olds shivering in the Chicago winter.</p><p>Mandy squeezes in close, and Ian smells her girlness, her candy-scented perfume and her floral shampoo. He thinks about the kiss, worries at his bottom lip with his teeth for a moment, before asking quietly, “You know I’m gay, right?”</p><p>Mandy snorts, unlinks their arms, and shoves him. “<i>Obviously</i>. You’re fucking my brother.”</p><p>“Just makin’ sure.”</p><p>She rolls her eyes at him before relinking their arms. “Butthead.”</p><p>At the restaurant, they order an extra pepperoni and scarf it down with fountain drinks. Mandy tells him about college life--about parties, about guys, about how she used to live in the dorms on campus until her dad got sick. She calls him both “Dad” and “Terry” interchangeably, and when she talks about him, her eyes flash in the same way that Mickey’s dull. Fear. Resignation.</p><p>Ian doesn’t know many details, the Milkovich siblings mentioning him off-handedly and in vague references that give Ian very little information in the end, but he looks at Mandy’s blue eyes and her bright, hopeful smile, and he thinks about Mickey punching the headboard and spending ten minutes in the bathroom crying, and he wants to kill Terry Milkovich with his bare hands.</p><p>He’s still thinking about it when Mandy changes the subject, and she ends up having to snap her fingers in his face to break him from his daze.</p><p>“Earth to Ian,” she teases, eyes goofily wide.</p><p>Ian leans back, making a show of holding his stomach. “Sorry,” he says, groaning a little. “Food coma.”</p><p>After dinner, the two of them walk to the park because Mandy wants to see the lights. The streets are still decorated for the holidays--snowflakes, icicle lights, and winter-themed banners mounted on posts and strung up along archways and in the windows of businesses.</p><p>At the nearby park, there’s a full light display, blinking snowmen and twinkling deer and the colorfully lit outlines of children tossing snowballs. Under a wire arch erected solely for the purpose of photographs and covered in string after string of criss-crossing lights, Mandy pulls out her phone and beckons Ian under with her.</p><p>“Smile,” she instructs, wrapping her arm around him and holding out her phone for a selfie.</p><p>They take a picture together, grinning, their cheeks cold-flushed pink and their eyes shining bright under the holiday lights.</p><p>It’s the first selfie Ian’s ever taken with a friend, and it feels monumental as much as it feels pathetic. Ian flushes when Mandy hands him her phone so he can look at it, and he feels like a dumb, excitable kid when the two of them wander off together afterward to get hot chocolate from the street vendor.</p><p>---</p><p>They follow each other on Instagram and exchange phone numbers when they part that night at nine. Ian’s headed to the L and Mandy’s headed to Hunter’s place.</p><p>She hugs him, whispers in his ear, “Don’t worry, I’m not in love with you,” and then flips him off as she walks away, leaving Ian laughing in the light of the Patsy’s sign and feeling alive and hopeful and like the Milkovich kids are going to change his life.</p><p>---</p><p>At home, he showers away the grime of Patsy’s and warms up his frozen bones from the nearly two hour, twenty-five degree stroll he’d had with Mandy through the Chicago streets.</p><p>It’s only just after ten, but he’s tired from the day, so he pulls on boxers and a T-shirt and climbs in bed.</p><p>Liam’s already asleep--ever the responsible kid, wise beyond his years--so Ian’s as quiet as he can be when he slips under the covers, switches off the light, and pulls out his phone.</p><p>He sees that sometime between the last time he looked at his phone on the L and now, probably in no more than the span of an hour, his phone has absolutely blown up with Instagram notifications.</p><p>What the fuck?</p><p>Not even knowing where to begin with prioritizing the notifications, he swipes open the app.</p><p>The culprit: Mandy. She’s posted and tagged Ian in a photo set captioned only with three yellow hearts, 💛💛💛, featuring pictures of their pizza, Ian’s hands holding both of their hot chocolates, and the smiling selfie of the two of them beneath the beam of holiday lights.</p><p>Because she has over 11,000 followers, apparently due to her relation to Mickey and her appearances on old <i>Nightmare Hour</i> Let’s Plays, the photo set has already garnered nearly 500 likes and forty-plus comments.</p><p>Ian taps to read the comments.</p><p><i>world’s cutest couple</i> 😍</p><p>
  <i>is this your bf????</i>
</p><p><i>nooooooooo</i> 😭😭😭</p><p>
  <i>is your boyfriend single?</i>
</p><p>Fuck. He checks his notifications and sees he’s gained twenty-seven followers so far, and he’s steadily gaining likes on random photos on his account from strangers--some who’ve followed him, some who haven’t. There are even people @ing their friends in the comments on his picture with Mickey at the cooperative gameplay session in July.</p><p><i>Thoughts?</i> one of the comments reads, followed by the username of some random person Ian’s never heard of.</p><p>Even though he thinks his brain might explode, Ian quickly opens up Twitter and braces himself for his timeline.</p><p>It’s not that bad--most of the people he follows relatively calm and respectful--but when he does a search for his name and sorts by “Latest,” he finds a tweet about him by a user weirdly called <b>mickey’s black nail</b>. </p><p>
  <span class="font-small"><b>mickey’s black nail:</b> how tf did that guy get mandy milkovich </span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">      <b>Polly ❤️️ Mick 🥛:</b> What guy??? 😩</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">          <b>mickey’s black nail:</b> ian gallagher, check her ig post</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">      <b>nightmare babie:</b> mandy dates gingers? guess there’s hope for my ugly ass 🤡  /hj</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">      <b>NickieMickie:</b> Ian Gallagher. Idk, I think he’s hot. 🤷 Good for her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">      <b>rat in a cage:</b> i thought she was dating someone else?? that guy from her college.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">      <b>grunge mick:</b> wait wtf he’s the guy who won the chicago cg session</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">          <b>mick’s beanie:</b> 👀</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">              <b>grunge mick:</b> look at his ig and tagged pics!!!</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">          <b>Polly ❤️️ Mick 🥛:</b> Did Mick set them up?</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">              <b>mick’s beanie:</b> doubt it, he and mickey aren’t following each other</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">          <b>mickey’s black nail:</b> wtf 👀</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">          <b>The World is a Vampire:</b> i thought that guy was gay?</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">              <b>NickieMickie:</b> Why do you think that?</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">              <b>mickey’s black nail:</b> source??</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">          <b>Alice 💎:</b> He’s gay. This is the guy who tried (and failed) to cancel Mickey last July.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">              <b>rat in a cage:</b> huh?</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">              <b>The World is a Vampire:</b> he didn’t try to “cancel” anybody, mick called him the f-slur</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">                  <b>mickey’s black nail:</b> what the hell is going on</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">                  <b>NickieMickie:</b> I’m confused. Are this guy and the guy who won the contest the same person?</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">                      <b>Alice 💎:</b> Yes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">                          <b>Polly ❤️️ Mick 🥛:</b> Wait so did Mick call him the f-slur at the contest? Why am I just now hearing of this??</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">                              <b>The World is a Vampire:</b> iirc the slur thing happened before the contest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">                                  <b>Fuck U-Up:</b> Yeah there was spec on the NR discord that he “won” bc MM was in hot water.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">                                      <b>Nightmare Maggie:</b> no, that was debunked due to some investigative work. </span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">                                      <b>Nightmare Maggie:</b> contest winners were likely chosen in early june and this didn’t happen until after gamerpalooza in mid-june.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">                                      <b>MADIMILK:</b> What’s NR? (sorry, I’m new to stan Twitter)</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">                                          <b>Fuck U-Up:</b> Nightmare Room</span>
</p><p>Ian’s head is spinning. This is just about the weirdest shit he’s ever experienced--being actively gossiped about in an easily-discoverable public thread on Twitter.</p><p>What the fuck. </p><p>After taking a long moment to squeeze his eyes shut, gathering his bearings, he goes over to the account of Nightmare Maggie--resident authority on all things MICK MILK--and reads her most recent thread.</p><p>
  <span class="font-small"><b>Nightmare Maggie:</b> i know it’s a lot to ask for on stan twitter, but be respectful of mickey, mandy, and ian’s privacy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">      <b>Nightmare Maggie:</b> for those wondering, ian’s gay. he and mandy are friends. </span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">      <b>Nightmare Maggie:</b> yes, he’s the guy who posted the DELETED insta comment about the homophobia, and yes, he’s also the guy who won the cg contest in chicago.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">          <b>Nightmare Maggie:</b> afaik, him winning the contest was just a weird coincidence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">          <b>Nightmare Maggie:</b> don’t listen to fucking discord, they don’t know wtf they’re talking about.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">              <b>Nightmare Maggie:</b> ian and mandy both live in chicago and are the same age, so maybe they met thru mutual friends or even go to college together. </span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">              <b>Nightmare Maggie:</b> i don’t think mickey has anything to do with it since they don’t even follow each other on social media.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">                  <b>Nightmare Maggie:</b> but i’m sure they’re on good terms and the misunderstanding has been cleared up because mickey liked mandy’s post.</span>
</p><p>The last post in the thread is a screenshot of Mandy’s Instagram post with <b>nightmarehour</b> visible as one of the people who’ve liked it.</p><p>Ian blanches at the thread. The speculation’s false, of course--the actual way they first met somehow much weirder--but the way everything’s broken down makes him feel like he has ice cubes in his belly. It’s so <i>confident</i>, so <i>in the know</i> in a way he’s pretty sure this girl isn’t, and he can’t help but want to fight back against it.</p><p>He rereads it, eyes falling once more on the screenshot.</p><p>Guess the cat’s out of the bag.</p><p>It’s not like it’s his fault, but he still feels somehow responsible, like he should’ve turned down Mandy’s dinner proposal. He wonders what Mickey’s thinking--if he’s secretly pissed, even if he did like the photo. It probably fucking sucks opening up Twitter to find people are mentioning you in tweets about your sister and the guy you’re secretly fucking.</p><p>And he may not be able to read Mickey’s mind, but he’s pretty sure Mickey can read his. In that moment, his phone buzzes with a text.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Mickey (10:34 PM):</b> wtf</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Three little letters, zero indication as to the tone in which they’re meant to be read.</p><p>Fuck. Mickey <i>is</i> pissed, isn’t he? </p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (10:35 PM):</b> Just kinda happened! 😣 Sorry!</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Ian’d obviously assumed Mickey was referring to the fact that he’s Topic of the Hour on stan Twitter, but apparently not, judging by his next response.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Mickey (10:36 PM):</b> what, did you just randomly run into my sister and decide to take her on a fuckin date?</p><p><b>Ian (10:36 PM):</b> Sort of? She came into the diner to work on a paper and we hung out during my shift.</p><p><b>Ian (10:37 PM):</b> She invited me out for pizza</p><p>------------------------</p><p>He feels more defensive than he wants to be. Literally none of it’s his fault.</p><p>And he’s a breath short of telling Mickey that--explaining that he’d been as shocked as Mickey is right now that Mandy had walked into Patsy’s last week--when the tone suddenly shifts completely.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Mickey (10:37 PM):</b> kinda weird, man</p><p>------------------------</p><p>The words feel like they’re written out of friendly discomfort rather than anger that it happened. <i>The guy I’m fucking is friends with my little sister</i>, not <i>the guy I’m fucking is trying to infiltrate my life.</i> Ian allows himself to take a deep breath.</p><p>Okay.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (10:37 PM):</b> Yeah, sorry</p><p>------------------------</p><p>When three minutes pass and Mickey hasn’t responded further, he thinks that’s the end of it--has even locked his phone and set it down on the mattress beside him. Mickey, however, apparently isn’t done.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Mickey (10:40 PM):</b> it’s cool, mandy’s annoying af</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Ian smiles to himself. </p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (10:40 PM):</b> I like her</p><p><b>Mickey (10:41 PM):</b> clearly</p><p><b>Ian (10:41 PM):</b> 😎</p><p>------------------------</p><p>After a minute of no response, Ian heads back over to Twitter and checks his timeline.</p><p>At the very top, Nightmare Maggie’s tweeted, <i>y’all are embarrassing.</i> He can’t keep his own cheeks from flushing up at it. How fucking weird.</p><p>He searches his name again and skims back through mickey’s black nail’s thread, which has gained a few more replies. And he understands that this is sort of what stan Twitter’s all about--hyperfixating on one person and everything and every<i>one</i> in that person’s bubble. </p><p>But shit if it isn’t just about the strangest thing Ian’s ever experienced, people speculating about his association with Mandy and Mickey and even going so far as to search Mickey’s Instagram username in the list of people Ian’s following and screenshotting the <i>No users found</i> message.</p><p>
  <i>anyone else think it’s sus that ian isn’t even following mickey?</i>
</p><p>He has to laugh at that. Then he bites his lip. Takes his own screenshot of the first chunk of the thread and, after only a moment’s hesitation, sends it to Mickey.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (10:45 PM):</b> What should I do about this?</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Mickey doesn’t respond for two entirely reasonable minutes, though it feels like a year. It’s enough time for Ian to feel supremely uncomfortable, snuggling down in his star-print blanket like a cocoon to keep him safe and secure.</p><p>When Mickey does reply, it’s not what Ian was expecting. He was expecting Mickey to bitch him out--however playfully--or call Mandy a dumbass for being so careless.</p><p>He doesn’t do either.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Mickey (10:47 PM):</b> nothing, it’s whatever. buncha invasive ass motherfuckers.</p><p><b>Ian (10:48 PM):</b> Ok, but should I maybe post something on my insta? I’m getting DMs.</p><p><b>Mickey (10:48 PM):</b> no!</p><p><b>Mickey (10:48 PM):</b> and get the fuck off stan twitter, it’s weird that you’re still on there</p><p>------------------------</p><p>The phrasing gives Ian pause.</p><p>Or maybe he’s overthinking.</p><p>Weird that he’s still on there why? Ian considers asking, but he doesn’t want to push whatever Mickey’s just implied here, if he’s implied anything at all. </p><p>It’s just that it sorta comes across as if Mickey definitely views him as very much not a fan, and while that’s obvious, yeah, they’re hooking up, whatever, it still manages to feel like warmth in his bones.</p><p>He blows out a breath. Types,</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (10:49 PM):</b> But then where would I get the latest MICK MILK gossip?</p><p><b>Mickey (10:49 PM):</b> 🖕</p><p><b>Ian (10:49 PM):</b> 😏</p><p>------------------------<br/>
---</p><p>Mandy apparently decides that Patsy’s Pies is her new homework spot, as she starts coming in most afternoons and setting up her shit in the back corner booth where the high schoolers usually sit.</p><p>Ian sneaks her free pie and coffee refills, and during his breaks, the two of them chat. He edits her papers and helps her study for tests, quizzing her with her flashcards and listening to her explain various brain functions in profanity-laced ways that make him grin, reminded of her brother.</p><p>On a Tuesday in mid-January, Ian’s just off his morning shift and is slumped horizontally in the booth across from her, munching from their shared plate of salty crinkle fries doused in ketchup. </p><p>They aren’t talking much, Mandy with her AirPods in, listening to the audio version of her <i>Theories of Personality</i> textbook and taking notes on her laptop. Ian’s got out his phone, scrolling around on social media.</p><p>He’d ultimately gained 139 followers from Mandy’s post, putting his total count at what feels like an unfathomable 610--especially for someone who only has to his name maybe two non-familial friends.</p><p>In the grand scheme of things, it probably isn’t a big deal, but he’s still receiving weird messages from people who ask him if he’s dating Mandy, if he’s friends with Mickey, or who act like they’re just interested in being friends with Ian because they think he’s an <i>interesting guy</i>.</p><p>It’s total bullshit, even if the attention does feel nice. His posts are all of random family shit and selfies with the Lark or Willow filters. <i>Interesting guy</i>, his ass.</p><p>Ian doesn’t reply to any of the messages, and he ignores some of the odd comments on his pictures, the ones that show zero awareness of his existence as a literate human being who doesn’t just post shit assuming it disappears into the ether.</p><p>A stranger tagged, followed by <i>this is the guy i was telling you about</i>.</p><p>A random row of rainbow flags and the question, <i>Is he gay, does anybody know??</i></p><p>On the post about the cooperative gameplay session: <i>Mickey introduced him to Mandy</i> ♥️♥️♥️.</p><p>Bizarrely, Ian’s gained at least a handful of loyal commenters who apparently insist on telling him how hot he is every time he posts a picture of himself, calling him <i>ginger king</i> and leaving a row of fire emojis.</p><p>It isn’t enough to disrupt his life. The Twitter thing passed and didn’t progress much past the couple of threads that one night, but it still gives him pause before he freely makes an Instagram post, and it makes him consider--if only briefly--privating his account altogether and removing the strange followers he’s amassed over the past few months.</p><p>Ian’s contemplating doing just that as he eats his fries and listens to the tinny, muffled sound of a stiff British dude reading information about something called Horney’s Theory, which had made him laugh when Mandy’d told him about it earlier.</p><p>He reaches for the glass of Pepsi he’d made for himself at the end of his shift and is just working on directing the unwieldy straw into his mouth with his tongue when his phone buzzes in his hand.</p><p>He looks down and, heart in his throat, swipes open a text from Mickey that looks like a picture.</p><p>It’s a screenshot of an e-ticket QR code for some sort of event on the 22nd at a theater on the Lower West Side. There’s no message attached. </p><p>Ian waits a couple minutes, and still one doesn’t arrive.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (1:19 PM):</b> What’s this?</p><p>------------------------</p><p>He grabs a fry. Munches. The typing dots dance and stop. Dance and stop.</p><p>Finally:</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Mickey (1:23 PM):</b> idk i’m in town on the 22nd, doin graham’s charity gig. last minute thing, somebody backed out.</p><p><b>Mickey (1:23 PM):</b> if you wanted to get together afterwards or whatever</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Ian’d known about a charity thing Mickey was doing for Valentine’s Day the following month--some <i>Bloody Valentine</i> livestream with SneakAttack Games he’s been promoting since New Year’s.</p><p>He’d been secretly excited about it, assuming Mickey wasn’t coming back to Chicago until then and fantasizing about fucking him into the mattress on Valentine’s Day.</p><p>But now has he like, gotten Ian a ticket to Grammark’s show? Does he want him to come <i>watch him</i>? In public?</p><p>He feels lightheaded, air-hungry like he can’t take enough breaths to satisfy himself.</p><p>Ian bites his lip and scrolls back up to the screenshot, enlarging it and taking in the details of the page.</p><p><i>Thanks, Mikhailo!</i> the confirmation message reads. <i>You’re all set!</i></p><p>“What’s wrong?”</p><p>Ian jumps slightly, eyes jerking to Mandy, who’s got an earbud out and is giving him a questioning look.</p><p>He shrugs, trying his best to school his expression. Grabs a fry and shoves it in. Says with his mouth full and so damn suspiciously, “Nothing.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>She isn’t backing down. Her bright, liner-rimmed eyes are narrowed at him. </p><p>Ian sighs. Whatever. “I think your brother just sent me a ticket for a show he’s doing next week.”</p><p>“<i>Fucker</i>. He didn’t send me one.” Mandy pulls out her other AirPod and slides the both of them into their charging case. “Not that I wanna go to that geeky shit, but he could at least offer.”</p><p>She studies Ian’s face for a moment, eyes roaming up and down, before batting her lashes. Her lips tug upward in a smirk.</p><p>“What?” Ian asks at her curious expression, suddenly feeling like he’s under a microscope.</p><p>Mandy shrugs at him, a tiny little jerk of her shoulders.</p><p>“<i>What</i>?”</p><p>In retrospect, he wishes he hadn’t pressed because the next thing she says makes his heart drop into his gut.</p><p>“You like him, don’t you?”</p><p>He thinks his expression probably gives him away--this wide-eyed thing he can’t think quickly enough to control--but he does his level best to turn it into an irritated eye-roll.</p><p>“Uhhh, we’re just friends,” he claims, voice as even as he can make it. A <i>duh, of course</i> voice.</p><p>“Who are fucking.”</p><p>“So? You and Hunter are friends who are fucking.”</p><p>“Um, are you <i>friends who are fucking</i> like me and Hunter are <i>friends who are fucking</i>? ‘Cause you call him my boyfriend like twice a day.”</p><p>Ian sets his phone on the table and rubs both hands over his eyes. “We’re just friends, Mandy. Swear. He’s in Chicago a lot, and we’re like, I dunno, good at fucking each other. It’s convenient. Fun.”</p><p>“Uhhh, hello? What’re you talking about?” Mandy’s eyebrows wrinkle, and she scrunches up her nose in a way that’d be cute if they weren’t having the conversation they’re having. “Mickey’s never in Chicago. He’s only been here like three times since July.”</p><p>Ian knows it doesn’t add up, but he does the math anyway. Counts at least four additional times Mickey’s been in Chicago since then.</p><p>All the air leaves his lungs in a quiet <i>whoosh</i> that he tries to smother with the side of his hand, rubbing it against his lips in a gesture that he hopes comes across as casual.</p><p>“Whatever,” he mumbles, reaching out for another fry. “Same difference. We have good sex. That’s it.”</p><p>Mandy stares at him for a minute like she’s trying to figure him out. Ian can’t help but hold his breath, even as he shovels in a ketchupy fry.</p><p>“Gross,” she says finally, and Ian can’t tell whether it’s a genuine reaction or if she’s simply letting him off the hook.</p><p>He allows himself to breathe, either way.</p><p>“I don’t need details about my brother’s sex life, thank you.”</p><p>He considers teasing her--considers giving her a fake detail or two just for fun--but decides to let the subject drop instead, afraid of where it might ultimately lead if he doesn’t.</p><p>His phone vibrates.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Mickey (1:28 PM):</b> forget it if you’re busy or whatever</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Oh shit. In the awkwardness, Ian’d forgotten to respond.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (1:28 PM):</b> Think you can get rid of me that easy?</p><p><b>Ian (1:28 PM):</b> Thanks. See ya then. ✌️</p><p><b>Mickey (1:29 PM):</b> cool</p><p>------------------------</p><p>---<br/>
---</p><p>He doesn’t tell his family about the show, even though they sort of know Mickey now. It feels weird. </p><p>Mickey’s not his boyfriend. <i>Hey, I’m going to this charity gaming thing to watch Mickey</i> seems like something a boyfriend would do. Advertising it would feel like deliberate misrepresentation of what they have. </p><p>He doesn’t want the questions, and he doesn’t want the looks--least of all from Fiona, who’s half-convinced he’s in love and making a huge mistake.</p><p>He also doesn’t want to tell Liam because <i>that</i>, he thinks, would be even weirder. It’s an 18+ show, so he couldn’t take Liam with him anyway, but he knows his brother would expect pictures and a full, excited run-down on MICK MILK.</p><p>All Ian wants to do is get Mickey Milkovich in a hotel afterward and make him come.</p><p>So no, he doesn’t say anything. When the 22nd rolls around, he slips out at 6:30, backpack in tow, and takes the bus to Pilsen like a kid sneaking around behind his parents’ back.</p><p>---<br/>
---</p><p>Grammark--Graham Markowitz--is less popular than Mickey on YouTube but more popular on Twitch. He’s known primarily for his goofy sense of humor and speed runs, where he replays games he’s beaten on his YouTube channel as fast as he can, completing only tasks that progress the story and doing his best to run away from all enemies rather than stealthily sneaking or engaging them in combat. </p><p>Ian’s watched his YouTube stuff a few times, but he could never get into him in the same way he immediately got into Mickey.</p><p>Stylistically, MICK MILK and Grammark are very different, but they’re always linked together in lists of popular gamers. They’re a couple tiers below YouTubers like Pewdiepie, Jacksepticeye, and Markiplier, but they’re popular enough to warrant a mention whenever celebrity gamers are written about in major publications. MICK MILK, Grammark, and RussFace are always listed in a little group of three--in that order--as if they’re best friends sharing an apartment. Joined at the hip.</p><p>All three of them are on the figurative playbill for the charity event that night, a part gaming, part music show benefiting the homeless youth of Chicago and organized by Graham and a TikToker he’s dating.</p><p>When Ian arrives at the concert hall, the doors are just opening, a crowd of mostly early twenty-somethings bottle-necking at the entrance in an effort to get the best spot on the floor.</p><p>In no hurry to go in, Ian loiters in a nearby alleyway and lights a cigarette.</p><p>It’s twenty-five degrees and basically dark, the smoke blown out through his lips an orange glow in the streetlights. He hears the bustle of traffic, the rumble of the crowd at the entrance. Somewhere inside the building, a cover of “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8raADQ30fN8">This Must Be The Place</a>” is playing loudly enough that he hears it through the window above him.</p><p>It’s weirdly lonely being there--one of those moments when he’s hit with something in his gut that makes reality feel hard-edged, saw-sharp. He used to get like that a lot as a kid, sitting somewhere as mundane as the kitchen table, surrounded by his family, and suddenly being hit by the enormity of the thought, <i>you’re alone; you’re going to die alone.</i></p><p>Fuck. He tilts his head back. Blows a stream of smoke at the purple, light-polluted sky.</p><p>A minute later, after taking a last drag off his cigarette, he crushes it against the brick wall he’s leaning against and flicks the remains aimlessly into the night. And he’s just about to turn to walk back toward the front of the building when his phone vibrates in his pocket.</p><p>He checks it.</p><p>It’s a text from someone not in his contacts, the number including an area code he doesn’t recognize.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>213-555-0181 (7:17 PM):</b> Greetings! It’s Mo Stoll. Message me when you arrive, as I’ve got strict orders to collect you. 😉</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Ian’s belly warms, something soft creeping in. He quickly saves Mo’s number to his contacts and replies.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (7:19 PM):</b> Hey Mo, I’m outside. Where should I meet you?</p><p><b>Mo (7:19 PM):</b> Brilliant! Pop through security at the entrance. I’m over by the emergency exits in the foyer.</p><p><b>Ian (7:19 PM):</b> 👍</p><p>------------------------</p><p>The crowd has calmed down a bit by the time Ian reaches the main entrance up a squat flight of stairs, just a few college-age hipstery kids milling about and pulling up e-tickets on their iPhones.</p><p>He heads in, has his own e-ticket scanned, and gets his bag searched at a security table. By the time he’s through the line and past the beefy man in blue latex gloves who’d pulled out his pill organizer and questioned him about his meds, he’s spotted Mo standing off to the right side of the lobby, leaned back against the wall near the exit sign, texting.</p><p>She’s got on a black turtleneck tucked into mustard corduroys, is sporting black zip-up sneakers and a studded cross-body bag, and she looks effortlessly cool and stylish in a way that makes Ian feel underdressed in his green Target brand hoodie and jeans.</p><p>“There he is,” Mo greets him with a smile, waving her arm in a <i>come here</i> motion. “Doin’ alright?” </p><p>They make small talk for a moment as Mo finishes up what she says is a business email, apologizing profusely all the while, and then, after a “You ready to go?” Ian follows her through a balcony door. </p><p>A security guard is posted at the bottom of a roped-off staircase, but upon glancing at something Mo shows him on her phone, he unhooks the rope and lets them up.</p><p>Ian feels out of his league--quiet and almost shy as he’s ushered into a relatively private three-aisle balcony seating area with a fantastic overhead view of the stage.</p><p>“If you’d rather watch from the floor, you’re obviously welcome to go,” Mo states, taking a seat at the end of the front aisle. “We just reckoned you’d rather not experience the shoving and the body odor.”</p><p>“Uh, yeah,” Ian murmurs, fumbly and awkward, sitting a couple seats down from Mo and turning to face her. “Thanks.”</p><p>We. </p><p>Holy fuck, had Mickey asked her to <i>collect him</i>, as she’d said, then let him sit in the balcony with her? What does that <i>mean</i>?</p><p>He takes a deep breath and blows it out in a slow stream, attempting to ground himself. </p><p>The two of them are among just three other people in the right balcony seating--a bearded guy currently setting up a video camera and two men about Ian’s age dressed in expensive streetwear that marks them as likely in the business circle. Maybe brothers of one of the acts. Friends. Hell, they could quite literally be the most famous guys on YouTube, and Ian doesn’t think he’d recognize them. </p><p>Down below, the floor is filling out, young fans at the front beginning to pack in like sardines, the theater seating just behind scattered primarily with people over the age of thirty.</p><p>Indie pop is playing loudly over the speakers, and on the screen above the stage, a number is projected that can be texted to donate to the charity organization supported by the benefit. </p><p>The room thrums with energy. A crewmember dressed in black comes out onto the stage and tapes an X on the floor with fluorescent yellow tape.</p><p>“So,” Mo starts, startling Ian’s heart into a little kick. He turns back to her.</p><p>“A little birdie told me you’re famous now.” She’s teasing, and Ian’s cheeks warm from it in a way that makes him feel awkward.</p><p>He snorts, trying to brush it off. “Twenty-four hours of Twitter fame.”</p><p>“Ahhh. The best sort.”</p><p>“Yeeeeah.”</p><p>Mo turns completely sideways in her seat, one long leg crooked and crammed in with her. “It’ll pass soon enough. It always does.”</p><p>There are implications in her words. They feel remarkably like Mickey’s <i>get the fuck off stan twitter, it’s weird that you’re still on there</i>. They feel permanent--a <i>you’ll get used to it</i> sort of statement.</p><p>He swallows. Shrugs. “It’s kinda weird, y’know? Like, I didn’t even do anything and there’s already theories about me.”</p><p>“Welcome to the club. It’s a very exclusive one, you know.”</p><p>“Oh yeah?”</p><p>Mo gives him a bright smile and reaches out, tapping his arm. “I travel ‘round with Mickey sometimes. We’re mates. We talk.”</p><p>Do they talk about <i>everything</i>? </p><p>“He’s like a little brother. Got spotted at a shopping center by a fan who immediately went on Twitter and declared she’d met MICK MILK and his girlfriend. Had a blurry fuckin’ photograph of m’self floatin’ ‘round social media for weeks and kept receiving DMs calling me ‘granny.’”</p><p>To Ian’s laugh, Mo intones, “A lovely bunch, the lot of them. And imagine <i>Mickey</i>’s surprise when he discovered he’d got himself a <i>girl</i>friend!”</p><p>He likes her. Likes her energy. Likes her sound--the way she’d said <i>pho’ograph</i> and <i>misself</i>.</p><p>She’d emphasized the <i>girl</i> in “girlfriend,” and it’s so obvious then--not like it wouldn’t be, anyway--that she knows the nature of his and Mickey’s associations with one another. </p><p>Of course she does. She <i>has</i> to know they’re fucking. The only other option is that he and Mickey had just become fast friends at the cooperative gameplay session and were simply hanging out all the time on strictly platonic terms.</p><p>Yeah fucking right.</p><p>Not for the first time, Ian wonders just how much Mickey has told her about him. She said they “talk.” Was that a hint? Has Mickey like, told her <i>details</i>?</p><p>He swallows. Peers at her. She’s got her arm propped up on the seatback, and the leg not in the seat with her is bouncing, the thick rubber heel of her sneaker making a gentle beating sound against the carpet.</p><p>“So, uh,” Ian starts, leaning in, not wanting the world to hear. “When you said you <i>talk</i>...?”</p><p>Mo grins. She knows exactly where he’s going.</p><p>“Yeah,” she says with a little shrug. “But never fear. Our Mick’s a private one. He tells me just enough to shut me up and not a bit more. I’ve grown accustomed to reading between the lines.”</p><p>Fuck it. “And the lines are…?”</p><p>“Now, that would be telling.”</p><p>Ian smirks at her. Gives her a subtle eye roll. “Yeah, okay,” he relents, shifting in his seat.</p><p>“Suffice it to say, I’ve reserved the corner room at the hotel.”</p><p>He walked into that. His face flames up.</p><p><i>Shut up</i>, he wants to say, waving it off. He doesn’t.</p><p>---</p><p>The show begins promptly at eight with three songs by an experimental rock band Ian’s never heard of and has little interest in ever hearing again. The crowd’s lukewarm at best--none of the cheers or shouts he’d seen at the MICK MILK show at the gaming convention. </p><p>When RussFace comes on, doing a twenty-minute Sims 4 session with sims he’d modeled after himself, Graham, and Mickey, the crowd laughs loudest over the MICK MILK sim, whom Russell had given the traits <i>hot-headed, geek,</i> and, for fun, <i>unflirty</i>. After a quick Create-A-Sim preview of his creations, he throws them into a house together and spends the next fifteen minutes trying to make them into a throuple, the crowd laughing uproariously when he makes the MICK MILK sim try to flirt.</p><p>It’s silly, Ian knows, but he can’t help but smile to himself at the crowd’s reaction, feeling a dumb sense of pride in his chest that people like Mickey. And not only that, but they like him <i>the most</i>.</p><p>“Yeah, whatever, he’s all cool and stuff, <i>sure</i>,” Russell jokes after wryly chastising the crowd for cheering loudest for the MICK MILK sim. “Too bad he’s so ugly.”</p><p>He laughs when the crowd playfully boos him, playing it up, and asks, “Oh, am I wrong about that? Huh. Damn.” He opens MICK up in Create-A-Sim and messes with his features. “What about now?”</p><p>Ian takes out his phone and, with a tiny smirk, pulls up his text thread with Mickey.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (8:19 PM):</b> Don’t worry. You’re at least a little bit flirty. 😉</p><p><b>Mickey (8:20 PM):</b> fuck you</p><p><b>Mickey (8:20 PM):</b> you with mo?</p><p><b>Ian (8:20 PM):</b> No, I’m crowd surfing with my fans</p><p><b>Mickey (8:21 PM):</b> you got fans, huh</p><p><b>Ian (8:21 PM):</b> Who do you think all the screaming girls are here to see? You? 🙄</p><p><b>Mickey (8:22 PM):</b> probably more likely they’re here to beat your ass for tryna cancel me, man</p><p><b>Ian (8:22 PM):</b> #MICKMILKCANCELED</p><p><b>Mickey (8:22 PM):</b> 🖕</p><p>------------------------<br/>
---</p><p>Graham’s TikToker girlfriend performs next, then Graham, himself, followed by some contortionist girl.</p><p>Mickey doesn’t actually take the stage until just after nine-thirty, and by this time, Ian’s more than a little ready for it. </p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (9:28 PM):</b> You know what would be cool?</p><p><b>Mickey (9:28 PM):</b> ???</p><p><b>Ian (9:28 PM):</b> If you came out in one of those leather jackets with the tassels on the sleeves with FUCK U-UP on the back in sequins</p><p><b>Ian (9:29 PM):</b> And had like sparks shooting out of your gaming station</p><p><b>Mickey (9:29 PM):</b> wtf</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Maybe he’s being annoying. He’s joking around, passing the time. Maybe he shouldn’t.</p><p>Ian studies his texts for a moment. Bites his lip. And after a brief period of deliberation, locks his phone.</p><p>Right before Mickey comes out five minutes later, Ian hears Mo’s phone vibrate. He watches out the corner of his eye as she glances down at it and smiles secretively before tapping out a reply.</p><p>By the quick glance she gives him--like she’s trying to be sneaky--Ian knows Mickey’s texting her about him. He’s not sure whether he should feel glad or nervous, his belly twisting regardless.</p><p>---</p><p>MICK MILK’s introduction at the benefit concert is nowhere near as elaborate as the one at the convention, though the crowd is certainly equally or even more enthusiastic about him.</p><p>“Bullet With Butterfly Wings” plays while crewmembers clear the stage of the contortionist’s props and wheel out the gaming station. The crowd sings to the song, bouncing in time with the beat and even starting to shove each other, the metal barrier separating them from the stage bending forward dangerously and threatening to topple under the collective weight of late teens’ and twenty-somethings’ bodies.</p><p>“Look at them go,” Mo comments, gesturing toward the crowd, and Ian scoots to the edge of his seat and leans on the metal balcony bars, peering down.</p><p>A couple guards put a stop to the shoving, if only temporarily, and it’s during this dramatic moment that Mickey walks onto the stage holding a bottle of water.</p><p>He sits down at the gaming chair, gets comfortable, and, upon observing the chaos in the crowd, asks, “The fuck are you all doin’? Buncha animals.”</p><p>The fans think he’s hilarious, bursting into collective laughter, and Ian smiles because he knows Mickey’s not even joking.</p><p>“Okay, okay, okay, shut the fuck up.”</p><p>More laughter.</p><p>Ian presses his knuckles against his mouth, holding back a grin, and watches Mickey start up <i>Phasmophobia</i> on the computer in front of him.</p><p>“So this game’s meant to be a multiplayer thing, but I’m gonna do a private room.”</p><p>The lights dim to the point that the majority of the room’s glow is coming from the game’s projection on the screen. As Mickey wanders his weirdly ugly character around a waiting room, he explains the objective.</p><p>It’s a ghost hunting game, typically multiple players working as a team to enter a haunted house, investigate, and use tools to help them determine and report the type of haunting.</p><p>Mickey starts the case, and the crowd is hushed as they seemingly find themselves engrossed in MICK MILK and honestly just how fucking cool he is.</p><p>He’s funny in a way that doesn’t come across as forced like Russell’s humor sometimes can, and he’s smart about game strategy in a way that Graham can’t even hold a candle to--his speed runs meant to be goofy rather than demonstrative of any sort of skill.</p><p>In a game designed for multiple people, Mickey heads into a haunted house alone, investigates carefully, and uses a thermometer, notebook, and spirit box to identify the haunting as a demon. All the while, he talks about how he thinks ghosts are bullshit, how difficult it is to employ ghosts in horror games without making them feel cartoony, and how the structure of <i>Phasmophobia</i> when played as a co-op is pretty fucking cool.</p><p>Ian listens intently, more focused than he’s been all night, and can’t help but keep his eyes mostly on the closed-captioning screen, where Mickey is illuminated in the bluish light of the game before him.</p><p>He’s beautiful, dressed in a <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/d13806f8c3d447924a1c1e012bb5300c/30d17270a7caedad-63/s500x750/e3459b182660bcf3065cd76dcd7c144e66a39b3f.jpg">navy feather-print button down</a> and skinny jeans tucked into chocolate brown boots. He’s not wearing a beanie tonight, his hair styled nicely--the longer bit up top bending just slightly over his forehead--and he’s got in his white earrings.</p><p>When Mickey smiles at little mistakes he makes or at small victories, Ian smiles. When Mickey makes a wry comment or a biting remark about the game, Ian bites his lip. When Mickey licks his lip absently, tongue coming out and running back and forth against the bottom, Ian stares at his mouth.</p><p>He likes him so much.</p><p>He likes him so much in every way. MICK MILK. Mickey. Mikhailo.</p><p>When the lights start to come back up, Mickey finished with his mission and giving a sweetly shy speech about why people should support the charity organization if they can--Ian turns to look at Mo, whom he’s expecting to find slouched in her chair, watching the show.</p><p>Instead, he finds she’s looking at him, and he turns away quickly, feeling like he’s been caught in something.</p><p>It’s the end of the show. Mickey remains on stage as the other performers come out and Graham gives his <i>thank you</i>s and farewells.</p><p>The rest of the people in the balcony, save for the cameraman, begin to gather their things to go. Mo taps around on her phone and then stands, as well. Ian follows suit.</p><p>The indie pop music starts back up, and Ian splits his attention between acting like he’s readying himself to leave the balcony with everyone else and watching Mickey on the stage, talking to Graham and Russell. Smiling. Crossing his arms over his chest and rolling his eyes at something one of them says.</p><p>Fans are starting to line the edge of the stage, security removing the barrier gate and, instead, blocking off the stage steps, allowing fans to talk to their idols, get selfies and autographs.</p><p>Mickey hangs back and drinks his water while the rest of the performers cozy up with them, Russell even sitting on the edge of the stage and letting fans get close enough that they’re leaning against his legs to take selfies.</p><p>Ian must be zoning, as a poke to his shoulder gives him a little jerk.</p><p>He turns to face Mo, who’s slinging on her cross-body purse. </p><p>“Woah,” she says softly, causing Ian to give her a look of confusion.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>If it’d been Mandy--and it <i>has been</i> Mandy--there would’ve been a knowing look. A smirk.</p><p>Mo simply smiles, and it’s gentle in a way that does nothing but confuse Ian even more. Suddenly, he feels self-conscious. He glances down at his scuffed boots briefly, wondering whether he should say something.</p><p>But what?</p><p>
  <i>Sorry. I just like him. I want to look at him.</i>
</p><p>“Come on,” Mo says, thankfully. “I’ve got you an Uber.”</p><p>---</p><p>He gets it. He knows there’s no way in hell Mickey’s going to be able to get out of the building and into his own Uber without people taking pictures or waiting at the stage door for selfies. Mo goes with Mickey. Ian can’t go with them.</p><p>Now that Ian’s been identified and linked to Mandy, being spotted getting into a car with Mickey would be--if not suicide--begging questions that don’t need to be asked. He can’t even imagine the Twitter situation after some fan posts a picture of the guy--who’s somehow simultaneously gay, dating Mandy, and trying to get MICK MILK canceled for calling him a faggot--climbing into an Uber with him.</p><p>So, yeah. He gets it. </p><p>It does feel weird, though, in an annoying way that grates at him a little.</p><p>Mo hands him a keycard she has stashed in her purse. Tells him Mickey’s room number. Says, “Perhaps I’ll see you in the morning?”</p><p>She doesn’t mean it in a dismissive way, Ian knows. He knows like he knows anything that she’s probably got agent-slash-PA things to do before she and Mickey leave the concert hall. Logically, Ian should just go ahead to the hotel room and wait.</p><p>It doesn’t stop the churning in his gut at it--something that once might’ve been exciting and secretive, <i>holy shit, I get to fuck MICK MILK</i>, now feeling unfair.</p><p>He’d love to wait for Mickey backstage. Say hi to him. Tell him he did a good job. Ride back with him to the hotel, stealing glances at him whenever he can. Talking about the show.</p><p>It probably isn’t right of him to feel this way. It doesn’t matter. Everything’s perfectly fine, everyone’s being perfectly reasonable, and Ian feels like he’s still somehow got the short end of the stick.</p><p>---</p><p>He arrives at the hotel at nearly 10:45 and, backpack slung over his shoulder, heads up to Mickey’s room, the layout of the hotel feeling like home by now.</p><p>Even though he’d certainly felt weird about being ushered here like a secret, he must admit that it does feel good that Mo gave him the extra key to Mickey’s room knowing full-well Mickey’s already been here--already has his personal items strewn about, his clothes and products and even some expensive electronic devices lying vulnerable in open luggage.</p><p>It feels good that Mickey must know, too, and everybody’s fine with Ian existing alongside Mickey’s underwear and face wash and little bottle of Zoloft.</p><p>For once the room isn’t actually a pigsty, Mickey having clearly only been there for a brief period of time before heading to the concert hall. His closed but unzipped suitcase is on the bed, and the only clues he’s spent any time in the room at all are the slightly rumpled comforter and pillows, like Mickey’d been sitting against the headboard, and the wrapper to a Peanut Butter Banana Clif Bar on the nightstand.</p><p>Ian sets his bag in the seating area armchair and then heads to the <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/0295a00e36b00750328c475305926985/6ed7f3e5ee8dc294-ce/s1280x1920/99b5ffdec159e13c292daddb66b62fe3102409c8.jpg">bathroom</a> to pee and wash his face. Mickey’s toiletry pouch is unzipped again, lying flopped open by the sink. Ian sees the antacid tablets, the Advil, the CVS prescription bottle--this one larger, a 90-day supply instead of 30. The dosage has been increased to 100mg. </p><p>Mickey’s lube’s in there, too, that same damn tube of Astroglide, now flattened at the end. It looks exactly the same as the last time they’d fucked--Ian himself having flattened the end of it like that, working all the gel down to the bottom.</p><p>Mickey travels to other places occasionally. Ian knows he does. He doesn’t go anywhere as frequently as Chicago, but he’s made Instagram posts from San Francisco, Seattle, and New York City. The second week in January, he’d spent what looked like three or four days in Austin, having been photographed by the same guy who’d done his trademark face-grabby Instagram photo. </p><p>Even if this is just his travel lube, the bottle apparently isn’t getting any action at all between trips to Chicago. Neither is his box of condoms, for that matter, Ian distinctly remembering the particular strip they’d been working their way through having three condoms left after their two nights in the loft. That three-condom strip was still there Christmas Eve night, at the top of the box like it’d been the last strip used.</p><p>This isn’t to say that Mickey isn’t fucking anyone else <i>at all</i>. Ian never travels--hasn’t really ever traveled in his entire life aside from the shit he’d done with Monica while they were both off their meds--but he can imagine that people who do it a lot probably don’t fully empty their suitcase after every trip. This is likely Mickey’s travel lube and travel condom box, and he’s just not fucking other guys while he’s on the road.</p><p>Maybe he doesn’t have a guy in every port. Doesn’t mean he’s not getting it on the regular at home--Grindr hookups, could be fucking some closeted YouTuber acquaintance he has. Maybe there’s a club in LA he goes to where no one’s shocked to see a celebrity and everybody knows to keep quiet. Maybe he dresses real nice and meets guys on the dancefloor, taking them home or to a hotel or sneaking into the bathroom with them for a hard fuck in a graffitied stall.</p><p>Mickey’s never gonna tell him.</p><p>
  <i>How many guys have <b>you</b> fucked?</i>
</p><p>
  <i>None of your business.</i>
</p><p>He remembers it clear as day.</p><p>Ian splashes water over his face and then bends to take a hand towel from the rack beneath the sink, using it to dry off and watching himself in the mirror all the while.</p><p>He heads back into the main room, moves Mickey’s suitcase off the bed, kicks off his shoes, and climbs on. He checks his watch. 11:07. It’s late.</p><p>Restlessly, he gets back up again, grabs his backpack from the armchair, and changes into blue and green plaid pajama pants. He then pulls on a gray T-shirt that he only realizes is either dryer-shrunken or pre-puberty size--his or one of his brothers’--when he pulls it over his head and finds that the bottom of it barely skims his waistband. </p><p>Ian’s raising his arms in the mirror, watching distastefully as about four inches of his stomach shows like he’s trying to dress like that fucking TikTok girl, when his phone chimes from the bed.</p><p>It’s Mickey.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Mickey (11:14 PM):</b> hey, you like chicken or beef tacos?</p><p><b>Ian (11:14 PM):</b> Beef</p><p><b>Mickey (11:15 PM):</b> cool</p><p>------------------------</p><p>He asks it like he’s just curious about Ian’s tastes in Mexican cuisine.</p><p>
  <i>So are you a guac fan, or do you prefer salsa?</i>
</p><p>Ian rubs the side of his finger back and forth across his eyebrow.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (11:16 PM):</b> Do you know when you’ll be here?</p><p><b>Ian (11:16 PM):</b> No rush, I’m having fun going through your shit </p><p><b>Mickey (11:16 PM):</b> well make yourself useful if you’re goin through my shit. fold my clothes, my suitcase is a fuckin disaster.</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Ian smiles. He can’t help it. He lies down on the bed and stretches out on his back, holding his phone up above him.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (11:17 PM):</b> No can do. Already bagged up all your clothes to sell on ebay.</p><p><b>Ian (11:17 PM):</b> 🤘🤘 Genuine MICK MILK Boxer Briefs, Lightly Used 🤘🤘</p><p><b>Mickey (11:18 PM):</b> that what you did with the ones i gave you?</p><p>------------------------</p><p>He bites his lip. Considers.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (11:18 PM):</b> Nah, I mostly just use those to jerk off</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Mickey doesn’t respond for a while, and Ian worries he’s somehow fucked it all up--muddied the waters of the solidly-defined bounds of their friendship and sex life. </p><p>When he does finally reply, it’s with one word</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Mickey (11:21 PM):</b> pathetic</p><p>------------------------</p><p>and Ian wonders if instead, he’d just made Mickey a little nervous.</p><p>He smiles at the thought. Wants to poke.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (11:22 PM):</b> So are you actually getting here anytime soon or do I need to do the same thing with all the ones I’m very alone with in this hotel room?</p><p><b>Mickey (11:22 PM):</b> won’t be able to sell them then</p><p><b>Ian (11:22 PM):</b> With the rate my fame is skyrocketing, my jizz can only make the price go up </p><p><b>Mickey (11:23 PM):</b> yeah, you’re practically a fuckin a-list celebrity</p><p><b>Ian (11:23 PM):</b> ✋ No pictures please</p><p><b>Mickey (11:23 PM):</b> jfc</p><p><b>Ian (11:24 PM):</b> 😎</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Mickey never actually tells him when he’s arriving at the hotel. He just walks in about fifteen minutes later with a large paper bag and a cardboard drink carrier. There’s a messenger bag strapped across his chest and a black cloth bag on his shoulder.</p><p>Ian climbs off the bed, where he’s been watching <i>Jurassic Park</i>, and goes over to help Mickey, taking the food and drinks from him and walking them over to the coffee table.</p><p>“‘ey,” Mickey greets, awkward as anything, and Ian smiles at him.</p><p>He unpacks the food--twelve foil-wrapped tacos, a bag of hot tortilla chips, a styrofoam container of queso with a sweating plastic lid--and watches Mickey drop his bags to the floor and take off his coat.</p><p>He’s wearing the same jeans he’d had on earlier, but he’s changed into a nondescript navy sweatshirt, and it hits Ian then--for the first time somehow--that Mickey’s patterned button-downs are a costume. They’re MICK MILK. </p><p>Mickey Milkovich wears sweatshirts and oversized band T-shirts. He lounges in the same few pairs of sweatpants, and his underwear comes from Target.</p><p>“The fuck’s wrong with your shirt?” Mickey asks suddenly, breaking Ian out of his thoughtful gaze.</p><p>He’s been bent slightly at the waist, arranging the food on the coffee table, and his top’s ridden up, exposing skin at his stomach. </p><p>“Must’ve thrown the wrong one in my bag.”</p><p>“Ya think?”</p><p>Ian tugs down the shirt and rolls his eyes at Mickey, whose lips upturn in a smile.</p><p>“You want another?”</p><p>Prideful, Ian shakes his head. “I’m good.”</p><p>“So you’re just gonna wear a crop-top all night?”</p><p>“Shut up.” Ian flips him off. “Let’s eat, I’m fucking starving.”</p><p>“<i>Chhh</i>.”</p><p>Mickey’s beautiful. He’s an asshole, but he’s beautiful, and he’s unlacing his boots and pulling them off along with his socks and then coming over to have dinner with Ian.</p><p>Ian takes the couch, and Mickey sticks to his usual armchair. Together, the two of them unwrap and munch down taco after taco, pausing in between to share the bag of chips with queso.</p><p>“You were good tonight,” Ian murmurs after a couple tacos, reaching out his bare foot to give a gentle kick to Mickey’s.</p><p>“Gee, thanks.”</p><p>“Asshole. I’m just sayin’.” Even while rolling his eyes, he smiles at him. Watches Mickey chew a chip. He’s got a tiny drip of queso on his chin.</p><p>When several seconds pass with no response, Ian purses his lips and, following a heavy breath out his nose, asks, “Do you like doin’ that shit? Not gaming, but like the public appearances and that kinda thing.”</p><p>Mickey hums and shrugs as he chews, muffled little crunching sounds coming from his closed mouth. “Sometimes. Depends.”</p><p>“On?”</p><p>“I dunno. I don’t mind gaming live. ‘s why I do the livestreams.” He shrugs again, picks up his drink, and takes a slurp off his straw. “Kinda hate the shit where they try to make me seem like a fuckin’ rockstar.”</p><p>“So no jacket with the tassels?”</p><p>Mickey swipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and it looks like he’s pressing back a smile as much as he’s wiping away taco sauce. “Think I’ll leave that one to you, A-List.”</p><p>“Nice of you, but I really think I’m onto something. ‘specially the gaming station with the pyrotechnics.”</p><p>“Fuck off.”</p><p>Ian snickers, and the two of them eat quietly for a few minutes, making their way through another two tacos and a handful of chips. </p><p>Just when Ian’s fairly certain the topic of conversation is dead, Mickey says casually, “Don’t like the cheesy concert shit or like, the meet-and-greet shit.”</p><p>“Then why do you do it?”</p><p>He doesn’t have to. He’s not hurting for money, and his YouTube and streaming career isn’t even close to dying.</p><p>Mickey shrugs. Picks up another taco from the stack and begins to unwrap it, ultra-carefully like he’s trying to distract himself with the task. “I dunno.”</p><p>It’s a non-answer indicating a lie. Mickey knows why he does it, but he isn’t saying. Ian watches him for a minute, sees shyness in the way his eyes cut to the TV, where velociraptors are hunting the kids in the kitchen, and lets that be okay.</p><p>They finish up their food, and while Ian takes it upon himself to clear the trash, Mickey changes into those same skinny black sweats and his oversized Slayer T-shirt.</p><p>Ian watches him as he changes--examines his back with those faint, silvery-pink cigarette burn scars, smiles at his lop-sided red boxer briefs, and huffs a laugh at the little hop he gives when pulling on his pants.</p><p>When they’re both done with their tasks, they grab their drink cups and sit together on the bed, backs to the headboard, finishing up the movie. </p><p>Ian studies him cautiously out the corner of his eye. It’s in moments like this that he wishes things were different. </p><p>He’s okay with the sex and the friendship. He’s okay with liking Mickey in every way, and he’s okay with keeping that buried--at least kind of, at least most of the time.</p><p>He and Mickey get along, and they have fun together, and Ian’s not going to complain about a night of tacos and <i>Jurassic Park</i> and a beautiful boy who’s just participated in a concert he very much didn’t want to be at in order to help raise money for charity.</p><p>But he can’t help but wish things were different in the sort of way that would make it okay for Ian to scoot closer in times like these--times when there’s a lull in activity, neither of them that invested in the movie but watching it mindlessly, sipping away at the watery remains of their pop with half-melted ice.</p><p>If he could, he’d scoot closer, and he’d touch his fingers to Mickey’s jaw, and he’d bring his face in just enough that he could kiss his drink-wet, drink-cold mouth that would taste like Dr. Pepper.</p><p>Ian’d like to be able to appreciate him in that way if he could. Even if none of the other things followed--things like dating and love, a lifetime of togetherness--it’d be okay. </p><p><i>I felt weirdly proud of you tonight</i>, he wants to say. <i>I’m so happy that people like you. I like you, too.</i></p><p>He presses his lips together. Thinking.</p><p>“Stop starin’ at me,” Mickey grumbles suddenly, rolling his head to the side, watching Ian right back. </p><p>It’s a teasing complaint, one meant to call attention to the action rather than condemn it.</p><p>Ian licks his lips. “No.”</p><p>Mickey looks affronted for a second. Surprised. But then he <i>chhh</i>s and smiles, his teeth showing, and Ian wants to kiss him so badly. Wants to crawl on him and in him and make his thighs shake and squeeze around his hips. </p><p>He wants to tell him he’s beautiful.</p><p>“Hey,” Mickey says, voice a murmur. </p><p>He wants to tell him he thinks he says <i>hey</i> more than Ian does.</p><p>Instead, he raises an eyebrow, and Mickey’s eyes move to it and then back down. Slow. He glances to Ian’s shirt, which is resting comfortably short, the tiniest bit of his stomach poking out, and snorts. </p><p>“Are you wearin’ <i>Liam</i>’s fuckin’ shirt?”</p><p>The fact that Mickey refers to Liam by name--<i>he knows his brother’s name</i>--makes something warm swell in Ian’s belly.</p><p>“Probably.”</p><p>“Take it off.”</p><p>It’s said in a <i>you fuckin’ dumbass</i> way, but Ian bites his lip and decides to play it up. He grasps the hem. Toys with it. </p><p>“Want me to take it off?” he flirts.</p><p>Mickey rolls his eyes. “Not if you’re gonna be annoying about it.”</p><p>“I think you want me to take it off, Mickey.”</p><p>“Fuck off with your tiny fuckin’ shirt.”</p><p>Ian grins, a silly happiness bubbling up in his chest. Effervescent. “You don’t think I’m sexy?”</p><p>“No.” Mickey leans over and sets his drink cup on the nightstand.</p><p>“Oh, okay. So you don’t think I’m just <i>sexy</i>. You think I’m <i>really</i> sexy.”</p><p>“Nope.”</p><p>“Hmm.” Ian pulls off the T-shirt, wads it up in a ball, and launches it across the room in the most obnoxious way he can manage. </p><p>To that, Mickey murmurs, “Fucker,” and tackles him, wrestling him into the pillows.</p><p>God, it would be so easy. Ian could get his hand up on the back of his neck. Pull him down. Kiss him.</p><p>But Mickey doesn’t want that. Mickey wants to play. Mickey pins his hands against the pillows and flattens himself on top of him.</p><p><i>How many guys are you fucking right now?</i> Ian wants to ask, the words on the tip of his tongue. Dancing there like a text typed but never sent.</p><p>Instead, he lets the moment hang, lets the huffs of Mickey’s breaths hit in him the face, all Dr. Peppery. He’s still got that tiny speck of cheese drying on his chin.</p><p>The silence becomes awkward, as does the held position. Ian wiggles his right hand, and Mickey lets it go free without a fight.</p><p>Ian licks his thumb, reaches up--just something to do--and rubs away the bit of queso.</p><p>Mickey makes a face--a child’s face after his mother’s tried to clean his mouth with her spitty finger--and wrenches back, moving his hands to either side of Ian’s shoulders and pushing so his upper body’s arching away.</p><p>“The fuck?”</p><p>Ian crosses his eyes at him, trying to make him smile. “What?”</p><p>The moment holds again. Mickey’s top teeth come out to press against his bottom lip, bunny-like.</p><p>And Ian, belly in knots but limbs sizzling with energy, uses that lull to hook his arms around his upper back, and with a grunting heave, flips him over onto his back, reversing their positions.</p><p>Mickey squawks, clearly thinking he’d had the upper hand in the situation, and fights back, getting his hands on Ian’s shoulders and trying to tip him back over again.</p><p>“No ya don’t!” Ian presses his weight into the body beneath him. He may be lankier--though that’s improving, little by little--but he’s still heavier, Mickey smaller and lighter than his strong, compact frame lets on.</p><p>This turns into a tussle, the two of them pushing and pulling at each other, which turns into play-fighting, Mickey giving up on getting Ian off him and instead, resulting to smacking at his bare chest. Pinching him. Giving him light taps across his face, pretend slaps.</p><p>Ian wrestles against him and grabs until he captures his forearms, slides his hands down to his wrists, then his hands. And then.</p><p>And then he laces their fingers together.</p><p>Mickey doesn’t seem to notice, or if he does, he doesn’t react. Maybe he doesn’t care. Maybe he sees it as nothing. But Ian lightly pins Mickey’s arms up above his head and shifts around until things are softer.</p><p>His belly twists.</p><p>He stretches out, arms up, the soft undersides brushing against Mickey’s T-shirt. He feels their ribs expand together as they breathe. Feels the plane of Mickey’s belly against his own.</p><p>Ian leans down, leans in, and presses his face into his neck.</p><p>He smells like something Ian wants to smell always. Morning-applied cologne, a citrus spice. Sweat. Something else like laundry detergent, soft and floral. Shampoo.</p><p>He smells warm, and Ian gets his mouth on him, kisses just under his ear, along the line just under his jaw. He squeezes their fingers together and drags his mouth down his throat, getting at the bit of skin along the collar of his T-shirt, then goes lower.</p><p>He holds on to him as long as he can, biting playfully down his chest and belly through the fabric of his shirt, then using his mouth to nudge up the bottom hem, allowing him more of that warm Mickey smell, more hot skin to kiss.</p><p>And the thing is, Mickey lets him. He lets himself be kissed on the belly, lets himself hold Ian’s hands, their fingers locked together. Ian lifts up for a moment in time to see Mickey look away from him--quick like he’d been caught--and then shut his eyes.</p><p>Gently, Ian eases his hands away from Mickey’s so he can use them to start tugging down his sweats, hooking them under the adorably red underwear as well so they’re dragged down with them.</p><p>He bites at his hip. Smooths his mouth over it in a kiss, then his tongue in a lick.</p><p>Mickey’s cock is hardening under his attentions, and Ian can’t help but get his hand on it, pushing it up and running the pad of his thumb up and down it, like he’s petting, just feeling the warm flesh as it tightens, the thrum of blood filling it out, the raised little trail of a pronounced vein.</p><p>Looked at this way, Mickey’s dick is just a body part, just something that belongs to him, that Ian wants to pleasure. He’s never been this up close and personal with one aside from his own, holding it and unhurriedly rubbing a finger against it, feeling it grow in his palm just because. Just because he likes the way it makes Mickey’s thighs twitch the littlest bit. Just because he likes that it’s making him feel good.</p><p>He glances up. Mickey’s looking down at him again, his breaths coming in <i>whoosh</i>es through his teeth, eyelids lowering, arousal clearly surging through him though he murmurs, “You just gonna fuckin’ stare at it?”</p><p>Ian smiles, naughty. “Want me to stop?”</p><p>“Fuck you.”</p><p>“‘cause I can stop if you want.”</p><p>“Don’t fuckin’ stop.”</p><p>As a reward, Ian leans in and touches his tongue to just under the lip of the head, giving him a series of slow strokes with it, then longer licks that eventually turn to soft, open-mouthed kisses.</p><p>“Asshole,” Mickey murmurs, and Ian snickers, sliding his hand down the base and then back up as he goes in fully, taking him into his mouth. </p><p>He loves sucking Mickey’s dick. </p><p>It’s not something he’d thought he’d ever like this much, all his past experiences feeling a bit weird and invasive in the same way he assumed it would feel to bottom, someone putting themselves inside him, invading him, getting their fluids in him.</p><p>Ian massages Mickey’s fuzzy scrotum, rolls his balls in his hand and runs his thumb along the seam, enjoying it all--the little jolt in his belly when he pulls Mickey in too far, the way he twitches against his tongue, the salty fluid. He pulls off. Kisses him just at the head, then along the shaft. </p><p>He looks up. Mickey’s hands are touching at his own belly, having pulled his shirt up, his fingers curled and dimpling his flesh. Ian lifts away completely, hooks his fingers back in Mickey’s pants and underwear, and starts to tug them all the way down his legs and off.</p><p>Once bottomless, Mickey sits up and removes his T-shirt, and Ian maneuvers himself around on the bed, getting off his own pants and underwear and dropping them on the floor.</p><p>He crawls between Mickey’s legs and grasps him around the waist experimentally, loving the way it feels--holding on to him like that, his thumbs pointing inward toward his navel and palms gripping at the squishiness at his sides. </p><p>He’s got the softest little belly that’s still somehow flat, just the tiniest outward curve from the side. There’s muscle beneath that’s visible when he flexes his abs, the gentle indentations of a four-pack, but they seem natural rather than developed, Mickey’s body not a gym body. Ian thinks he’s perfect. </p><p>He squeezes at him and slides down to shift Mickey’s hips upward, giving him access to press his own hard cock into the space just beneath the other man’s balls.</p><p>Ian removes his hands from Mickey’s sides and stretches out over his body instead, their bellies touching, warm and naked. He reaches down, takes himself in hand, and breathes heavily as he drags his cock down a few inches, sliding it into the cleft of Mickey’s ass.</p><p>He lowers his head and sucks at Mickey’s shoulder. Feels a hand on the back of his neck--holding him there, massaging, then dragging upward into his hair and pushing it up in a way Ian knows will make it spike like a hedgehog. </p><p>He breathes and he breathes, just rubbing. Mickey makes gaspy noises, his nails digging into Ian’s scalp, gripping his hair, and Ian feels the man’s hard cock twitch against his belly.</p><p>He pulls away. Blows out a breath. “Got the lube?”</p><p>Mickey swallows, then sighs, eyes squeezing shut for a disappointed minute. “Bathroom.”</p><p>Yep.</p><p>Ian keeps dragging his cock along Mickey’s crack, sometimes touching the little indention of his opening and pressing against it--not to actually go in, just for the sensation.</p><p>He’d suggest spit to save the trip, but it sucks and he doesn’t want to hurt him. Then there’s the condom issue. They’ll need one because they don’t talk about things, and the box is probably still in Mickey’s suitcase.</p><p>Ian groans in frustration, pulls his hand away from his dick, and rolls off him. “Get the condoms,” he says, sliding off the bed and making his way naked to the bathroom, his dick bobbing comically the whole way.</p><p>He flips on the light and wants to laugh at himself, his ridiculous hair sticking up every which way, his chest blotchy with arousal and mouth red from sucking dick. </p><p>Shit. He smiles at himself, then makes a grab for Mickey’s toiletry pouch, getting out the lube and feeling oddly proud that Mickey’s letting him do this--letting him get eyes and hands on the thing that holds his pills, his toothbrush, all the intimate little details of his life.</p><p>With a burst of confidence that often results in silliness, Ian saunters back out into the room to find Mickey pulling out just one single condom, all on its own in the box alongside one more long strip--the one single condom that was left after they’d fucked face-to-face Christmas night.</p><p>If Mickey’s had sex with anyone else since Christmas, he didn’t use condoms from this box.</p><p>Stomach twisting and skin sizzling--again, effervescent--Ian tosses the lube onto the bed and then grins as he makes his way over to Mickey.</p><p>“What?” Mickey asks, holding the foil packet between thumb and forefinger.</p><p>Ian bends, sucks a wet kiss against the slope of his neck, then reaches both hands around and grips him at the back of his thighs, pulling in and scooping up as if encouraging Mickey to climb into his arms.</p><p>He lifts, kissing his neck again, and Mickey gets his arms around his back and holds on as his heels leave the carpet for the briefest of moments.</p><p>Ian scoops one more time, then starts to nudge him backward toward the bed with his chest, Mickey stumbling along getting his neck sucked and Ian now more determined than ever to get him under him.</p><p>Mickey’s legs meet the side of the bed. Ian pulls his mouth away and then shoves him playfully, sending Mickey onto his back on the mattress with a bounce, his cheeks lifting with a smile that he immediately turns into a “Holy shit, man” that makes Ian chuckle as he follows him down.</p><p>The two of them shift around. Ian grabs the lube, squirts a fat dollop on his fingers, and gets them between Mickey’s legs, wasting no time.</p><p>“My dick’s gonna explode,” he comments, huffing a breath when he breaches Mickey with his middle finger.</p><p>Mickey hums and stretches his arms up over his head, knuckles to the headboard as he relaxes into Ian’s ministrations. </p><p>“Not gettin’ much action?” he asks, voice gentler than Ian thinks he probably wants--going for wry but coming across almost cautious.</p><p>Ian pulls out, applies more lube, and slowly eases in two fingers, watching the rise and fall of Mickey’s belly and chest, examining his misshapen ribs, running his eyes up his body to his armpits and the dusting of dark, fuzzy hair there.</p><p>“Haven’t had sex since Christmas,” he says, thinking less about it than he should. </p><p>
  <i>You’re the only guy I’m fucking right now.</i>
</p><p>“Why?” Mickey’s eyes open, find Ian’s, then close again. He blows a soft breath from pursed lips, and Ian watches his cheeks redden. </p><p>He finds Mickey’s prostate just for fun, and the other man hisses, nose scrunching up adorably.</p><p>“This ain’t an exclusive thing,” Mickey clarifies, breathless.</p><p>Yeah, okay, Mickey.</p><p>“I know,” Ian says, removing his fingers, relubing, and sliding in three. He begins a series of thrusts, Mickey clenching around him, feeling it.</p><p><i>When’s the last time you had sex?</i> he wants to ask.</p><p>Instead, he leans in, plants kisses across Mickey’s chest, then one on his throat, before pulling away his fingers altogether.</p><p>To be playfully obnoxious, he wipes his sticky fingers on Mickey’s thigh, getting an <i>ugh</i> sound out of the man, and grins as he rips open the little foil packet and pulls on the condom.</p><p>There’s no question as to the position, and a thrill shoots through Ian’s chest and belly as he works himself between Mickey’s spread legs and then inside his body, pressing in, in, so, so slow.</p><p>“Fuck,” Mickey whispers, then again once Ian’s fully seated, bending and stretching out until he feels Mickey’s dick against his lower belly. “Fuck.”</p><p>Ian puts his weight on his elbows, which are pressed to either side of Mickey’s body, and fucks into him in little pushes that feel so good he can’t stand it, so good he wants to feel it forever.</p><p>Wants to feel the tightness of Mickey’s body clenching around him, the squeeze of his knees against his waist and his feet hooked up around his lower back. Wants to feel Mickey’s fingers splayed out along his spine, his arms wrapped around him in something that feels comforting like a hug.</p><p>He moves in him slowly at first, then faster, harder, mouth dropping open and letting escape pleasure sighs, murmurs.</p><p>“Shit,” he whispers, touching their foreheads together for a brief, tense moment, their breath puffing in each other’s faces.</p><p>Mickey’s eyes open then, and they watch each other awkwardly, an inch apart, before it’s too, too much and Ian has to lean back, a flush making its way up his neck and into his cheeks.</p><p>He pushes himself up then, straightening out his arms for a while and gazing down between them at Mickey’s dick, which is sticky-tipped, a little string of precome oozing onto his belly. God, it’s hot. Ian huffs. Readjusts his position.</p><p>He gets up on his knees and takes Mickey by the waist how he’d wanted to earlier, squeezing him and pulling him onto his lap. Mickey gets his arms up over his head again, shuts his eyes, and for a series of two dozen or so thrusts, Ian rocking him on his dick and shifting his hips in little pushes, Mickey murmurs, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” like every word in the English language has been replaced with it. Like that’s all that’s going through his head, breaths of <i>fuck</i> and <i>fuck</i> and <i>fuck</i>.</p><p>He sounds pained, pleasure-pained, and he keeps pausing to lick his lips, to blow out a breath.</p><p>Ian stares at his mouth and wants to kiss the hell out of him, this man he’s fairly certain is going to drive him crazy, is going to kill him.</p><p>He fucks him, and he pants, and when Mickey gets a hand on himself, eyes opening for just long enough to touch Ian’s as he does it, unfocused, beautiful, Ian groans, “Holy fuck, Mickey” and feels Mickey squeeze around him. Hears him gasp, his lips parting.</p><p><i>I missed you</i>, Ian thinks, dragging his hands up Mickey’s sides to his ribs, holding him there, feeling him there.</p><p>It’s stupid, he knows. They’re not dating. They’re friends who fuck. Ian shouldn’t miss him but he does, and he had.</p><p>He likes him.</p><p>He pauses his thrusts and bends back over Mickey, stretching out enough that he can be close, and he presses a kiss to his shoulder, then smooshes his face into the warmth of his neck where he’s sweaty and his smell is strongest.</p><p>Ian breathes hard there, his breaths making Mickey’s skin wet and hot, and Mickey gets one arm around him, his other down between their bodies, and murmurs, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”</p><p>Then he whispers, “Fuck, Ian.”</p><p>Just once.</p><p>Just enough to make Ian push out, “Oh, God,” all breath, and come so hard his toes dig into the mattress, curling.</p><p>His mouth drops open, and he barely remembers anything but biting Mickey’s shoulder and then the tight, rhythmic squeezes around his dick as Mickey comes between them.</p><p>“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”</p><p>Fuck.</p><p>Ian collapses, panting. God.</p><p>He blows out a breath. Nuzzles closer, deeper into the warmth of Mickey’s neck. Smelling him. Drinking him in.</p><p>---</p><p>They lie like that for what feels like a year. It’s the first time no one makes a single move to pull apart. Mickey runs his hand up and down Ian’s spine, then pauses at the back of his neck, holding him there. Squeezing once, twice.</p><p>Ian’s exhausted. He wants to fall asleep like this, buried in Mickey--literally, figuratively.</p><p>On a whim, he pushes up on one elbow--just enough so he can see Mickey’s face--and watches him for a moment, eyes wandering across the sweat at his brow, his rosy cheeks, parted lips.</p><p>Cautiously, Ian places a hand on his forehead and smooths back his hair, holding it away from his face. Digs in his fingers for an affectionate <i>skritch-skritch</i> at his scalp.</p><p>Mickey opens his eyes. Watches back.</p><p>And Ian thinks they’re having a moment--enough that he feels warmth start to pool in his belly, Mickey’s lips upturning just the tiniest bit, just enough to let Ian know he’s okay with this, he’s fine with Ian’s affection. </p><p>But then Mickey’s face gets that grumpy, playful look again, and he says, “Alright, alright. Don’t lose a condom in my ass.”</p><p>Yeah, okay, Mickey. Ian smirks, gives his fistful of hair a tug, and then reaches down in order to slide out without incident. </p><p>---</p><p>He pulls off the condom but doesn’t bother cleaning up, just tosses it aimlessly at the trashcan, not even paying attention to whether he makes it, and flops down on his back beside Mickey.</p><p>There’s a heavy, satisfied sigh, then a rustling sound. The rumble of a drawer being opened.</p><p>Ian tilts his head just in time to watch Mickey slide a cigarette between his lips. The lighter <i>snick</i>s. Flame touches the end. Mickey takes a puff, puff, smoke escaping the gaps in his lips.</p><p>He takes a long, indulgent drag, then blows it out in a straight stream.</p><p>“How are you so good at that?” he asks, and Ian’s so surprised to hear it he almost forgets to reply.</p><p>He sputters like a fuckin’ goof. Mickey smokes for a silent moment, then turns to look at him.</p><p>And with that, Ian grins, happy. Proud. Effervescent. He chuckles and teases, “Am I the best you ever had?” </p><p>Feeling brave, he holds out his fingers, and Mickey only hesitates for a second before passing over the cigarette. A beat later, after apparently registering the question, he snorts.</p><p>“That’s not a no,” Ian says cockily before taking a drag, smoke seeping out his mouth as he smiles.</p><p>Mickey reaches over and pulls the cigarette from between his lips. “Shut the fuck up.”</p><p>“Make me.”</p><p>“<i>Chhh</i>.”</p><p>After he hears the sizzle of Mickey taking another drag, Ian holds out his fingers blindly. Mickey slaps his hand away.</p><p>He tries again, this time tilting his head to watch.</p><p>Mickey eyes him, then leans in and bites his finger, just a teasing nip. It makes Ian want to die a little in the best sort of way, and he pinches Mickey’s arm in retaliation.</p><p>He’s rewarded with the remainder of the cigarette, Mickey calling him a “dickhead” and handing it over, and Ian smokes happily, humming obnoxiously all the while.</p><p>---</p><p>It’s after midnight when they finally roll out of bed and clean up. They share a washcloth, Ian wiping down first so Mickey can use it to clean the lube off his ass, then pull their clothes back on.</p><p>Mickey grabs them waters from the fridge, and the two of them climb in bed together, propping themselves up on the pillows, and watch some weird reality show on TLC.</p><p>“Hey,” Ian says during a commercial break, snuggling down under the covers like he’s showing Mickey he’s ready to go to sleep. He yawns.</p><p>Mickey turns to look at him. “Hm?”</p><p>“You got an early flight out tomorrow?”</p><p>Apparently catching Ian’s hint, Mickey reaches for the remote on the nightstand and switches off the TV. “Nah.” He sets the remote back down and turns off his lamp, the room going dark save for the blue wash of the city lights. “Meetin’ Mo at eleven. Flight’s at like, one.”</p><p>Ian sniffs. Twists around, settling in. “Cool.”</p><p>They’re quiet for a minute as Mickey yawns and scoots down to rest his head on the pillow. He turns on his side, facing the middle.</p><p>“I like her,” Ian says then, turning his head to watch him, the glow of the city lights making his eyes shine.</p><p>“You like every woman in my life.”</p><p>“Is that weird?” He’s genuinely curious. Is it weird of him to be friends with Mandy? To like Mo and want to know her better?</p><p>Mickey huffs a quiet laugh out his nose, just a little puff of air. “<i>You’re</i> weird.”</p><p>Ian kicks him, his bare foot making contact with the soft cotton of his sweatpants. He leaves it there for a moment, letting his toes press against Mickey’s calf, before pulling it back. “Doesn’t answer my question.”</p><p>He feels a poke to his belly, Mickey reaching out and touching his finger to the spot where his shirt’s riding up. He raises an eyebrow.</p><p>Catching on that Ian’s serious, Mickey hums, thinking. Shrugs. “Nah. It’s cool.”</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>“Do whatever the fuck you want. Why would I care?”</p><p>Mickey’s being too casual--trying to act too unaffected, pretending to be nonchalant about the fact that the guy he’s fucking is becoming fast, close friends with his little sister and has just admitted to liking his other friend.</p><p>Ian sees it in the quirk of his brow, in the twist of his mouth. The pretending feels soft. He smiles at him.</p><p>It’s dark, but he can tell Mickey can see him because he rolls his eyes, a flashing gleam in the city lights.</p><p>Ian wonders what it would be like to kiss him. To kiss someone like this in general.</p><p>He’s kissed countless men. He’s had their dicks in his mouth and his in theirs. He’s fucked a seemingly endless stream of guys from the club. For pay. Not for pay.</p><p>Never in his entire life has he lain in the dark with someone he likes, kissing them.</p><p>Mickey makes a little huffing sound--a cross between a sigh and a breathy laugh. He twists onto his back. Stretches, arms up.</p><p>“Night,” he murmurs, gripping the covers and pulling them up and almost over his head in the way he likes to sleep. Cocooned. Safe. Sweet.</p><p>“Night, Mickey.”</p><p>---<br/>
---</p><p>When Ian wakes at a little after eight, bladder bursting, Mickey’s still sleeping peacefully, snuggled up in the comforter, his lips parted and soft breaths puffing out. </p><p>Carefully, Ian climbs from the bed and heads over to his backpack, where he sneaks out his morning meds, careful of the rattling of his pill organizer, and heads to the bathroom.</p><p>He pees, washes his face, and swallows his pills with sink water. His phone chimes from the nightstand as he’s making his way out, and he hurriedly goes to grab it before it chimes again, trying to avoid waking the sleepy little monster in the bed.</p><p>It’s Liam.</p><p>Ian swipes open the message as he climbs back in bed, propping the pillows up behind him so his head’s slightly raised.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Liam (8:25 AM):</b> how did this happen???? 😆😁🤩😱</p><p>------------------------</p><p>He’s sent a picture of him with a MICK MILK shirt over his pajamas, the likely Adult Small size just a bit too long on him and the sleeves hitting at his elbows.</p><p>It’s a black shirt with <i>Nightmare Hour</i> across the front in a fluorescent yellow rock band type font, a lightning-bolt shaped underline just beneath.</p><p>A minute later, another picture comes in of several more items spread out on his bed--a matching tumbler, a white version of the T-shirt with the font in hot pink, an NH PopSocket, and a red beanie like the one Mickey wears with <i>scared yet?</i> embroidered on the front.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Liam (8:27 AM):</b> 😱😱😱</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Ian grins at the kid’s happiness, his heart soaring.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (8:27 AM):</b> Wow, Liam, that’s cool as shit!</p><p><b>Liam (8:28 AM):</b> i know!!!!!</p><p>------------------------</p><p>“Who the fuck you textin’ this early?” comes a sleepy voice to Ian’s left.</p><p>He turns his head and can’t help but smile at Mickey’s sleep-pink, pillow-creased face and messy hair.</p><p>What the hell. Ian scoots closer, stretching out on his back less than a foot away from his bed partner. He opens the picture of Liam in the T-shirt and holds it out for Mickey to see.</p><p>Ian’s sort of expecting Mickey to look unimpressed in the way he always does--maybe throwing in a smirk just for fun. </p><p>Instead, Mickey gives a little nose-puff of a laugh and smiles in a way Ian can only describe as sweet. His sleepy eyes make him look so young, and Ian’s belly is flooded with butterflies.</p><p>“‘ey. Look at that,” Mickey comments, voice kind like he’s talking to a kid. “It’s big on him.”</p><p>“He’ll grow into it.”</p><p>Mickey nudges closer, shoulder to shoulder with Ian, and bumps him teasingly. “Could trade shirts, Crop Top.”</p><p>Ian kicks him. “Fuck you.” It’s laugh-filled. </p><p>Mickey snorts, and the two of them chuckle together for a minute before Mickey sighs in a way that sounds happy and reaches for the room service menu on his nightstand.</p><p>After a joint perusal, Mickey calls in an order for a stack of eight banana pancakes to share and an order of bacon.</p><p>He yawns after he hangs up, stretches with a satisfied groan, and then opens up Instagram on his phone.</p><p>Ian--still close by, Mickey only having moved away a few inches--watches the other man check his notifications, which are numerous, and then start scrolling down his feed. He likes a handful of posts, then switches over to Twitter.</p><p>“Whatchu lookin’ at?” Mickey asks, not looking back at him but seemingly aware that he’s spying.</p><p>Ian shrugs, shoulder bumping against Mickey’s. “So do you like, read all your mentions and stuff?”</p><p>Mickey sniffs and, as if in answer to the question, pulls them up. “Kinda skim sometimes.”</p><p>The font’s small, so Ian leans closer to see--close enough that he can smell Mickey’s sleep-sweat and the detergent on his shirt. </p><p>Somehow, Mickey lets him. He doesn’t squirm away or give him a funny look--just lets him lean against him almost, separated by a breath, their heads a tilt away from touching.</p><p>His heart pounds hard enough that he’s sure Mickey can hear it, but if he does, he doesn’t say anything.</p><p>Feeling like he’s been given permission, Ian squints at the screen of Mickey’s phone without shame, and Mickey slowly scrolls through his mentions.</p><p>There are the usual tweets of admiration, some weird memes, people tagging him in art and fancams. There are people calling him <i>bestie</i> and a few trolls, which don’t at all seem to affect Mickey, who simply scrolls past, the expression on his face never changing.</p><p>It’s bizarre seeing him do this. Seeing him act this way, so nonchalant. Ian remembers scrolling through the thread speculating about his relationship to the Milkovich siblings--the twist in his gut, the way he wanted to make a post to tell everyone to stop talking about him, to tell them they’re wrong.</p><p>There’s none of that on Mickey’s face. In fact, he seems almost bored, chewing his lip absently and then, as if tired of reading, tapping back over to his timeline.</p><p>“What’s your fuckin’ username?” he asks, tapping the magnifying glass at the bottom and then the search bar.</p><p>Ian smirks. “Why? Gonna follow me?”</p><p>“No, but I know you follow <i>me</i>.”</p><p>“So?”</p><p>Mickey tilts his head to look at him. “If you’re tellin’ people shit about me…”</p><p>His voice isn’t hard, doesn’t sound mean or genuine or even serious, really. It sounds like he knows Ian isn’t telling anyone anything, and for this reason, Ian isn’t bothered.</p><p>“Oh yeah,” he intones. “I’m in a MICK MILK groupchat. I tell them everything.”</p><p>Mickey rolls his eyes, but he plays along. “Like what?”</p><p>“Mm, y’know. Dick size. How you like to take it. How you sound when you come.”</p><p>Mickey’s cheeks flame up, and Ian wants to lean in just a couple inches and press his lips to each one.</p><p>“I don’t do shit,” he says instead, seriously. “I have literally zero followers.”</p><p>“Thought you were famous, A-List.”</p><p>“Yeah, well.” Ian shrugs. “Fame’s a bitch.”</p><p>Mickey snorts at him. “You’re a loser.”</p><p>“Thanks.” Ian kicks him under the covers, and Mickey yawns loudly, sets his phone down in the space between them, and climbs out of bed.</p><p>He wanders on sleep-unsteady legs to the bathroom, and Ian waits while he pees and washes his hands.</p><p>While the water’s on, his phone buzzes beside Ian’s thigh. Ian picks it up, curious. Mickey’s got an Instagram notification, but he can’t actually see what it is, iOS obviously not recognizing his face.</p><p>The water cuts off, and Mickey’s back in the room before Ian has a chance to put his phone back down.</p><p>“Snoop,” he comments, no heat in it, and Ian hands his phone over.</p><p>“Got an Instagram notification.”</p><p>Mickey sniffs and opens Instagram.</p><p>“What’s it like?” Ian asks, gesturing to the app as Mickey checks his notifications and then starts idly scrolling his feed again. “Having like, millions of followers and shit.”</p><p>“Mm. I dunno. Kinda sucks sometimes.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>Mickey sniffs, scrolls. He lands on Mandy’s most recent post--one of her sitting on a bed in someone’s dorm room, holding a beer. “Shit like this.”</p><p>He likes the post, then taps the comments. In the text box at the bottom, he types, <i>no drinking before marriage</i>. Submits it.</p><p>Within a minute, his comment is already starting to get likes and even replies, shit like <i>comedy king</i> and <i>big brother mick</i> with the pleading eyes emoji.</p><p>Ian laughs at the comment because it’s pretty funny, actually--<i>comedy fucking king</i>--but yeah, he gets what he means.</p><p>“Same with like Twitter and shit, man,” Mickey says, shrugging. “I mean, it’s public, so whatever. I know that shit. It ain’t a big deal. Just kinda hard to do anything without feelin’ like somebody’s followin’ me around.”</p><p>“Do you get weird messages and shit?”</p><p>Mickey gives him a look, then pulls up his DMs. Before he has a chance to click “99+ requests” in the top right corner, Ian’s able to see that he has DM threads with countless people--organizations, brands, Mandy, Mo, a few other people he doesn’t know, and Ian, third from the top.</p><p>Seeing his profile picture there makes him feel soft in a way he doesn’t quite understand. Maybe it’s his face surrounded by the faces of people in the business, people in Mickey’s family. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s allowed to exist there--amongst some important people in Mickey’s life. More than allowed. Fucking <i>wanted</i>. Mickey’d DMed him first that evening in the hotel.</p><p>
  <i>so are you gonna follow me or not?</i>
</p><p>Ian smiles at the memory. He watches Mickey open up his message requests, and rather than settling in to read some of them with him like he was expecting, Mickey hands over his phone.</p><p>Ian stares at him in disbelief, but all Mickey does is shrug like it’s no big deal. </p><p>It feels like a big deal.</p><p>“Just don’t accept any of them.”</p><p><i>Are you serious?</i> Ian wants to ask but doesn’t.</p><p>Instead, he takes the phone, trying to play it cool, and taps open a message at random.</p><p>The person’s sent tons of messages, one practically every day for the past month, all saying <i>hi</i> or <i>hello</i> or <i>good morning</i>. Thrown in there is the occasional <i>why aren’t you answering</i>, and then four messages sent in a row, <i>mick, mick, mickey, mick</i>.</p><p>The fan’s clearly trying to be funny, and Ian snorts at it, tilting his head toward Mickey.</p><p>“<i>Don’t</i> accept it,” he says, and Ian huffs a laugh and backs out of it.</p><p>The next DM is literal spam--sketchy link and all--and the next is a groupchat with multiple people, all having a random conversation about something completely irrelevant, one of the messages reading, <i>i hope mickey doesn’t actually check his dms lmao</i>.</p><p>There are some genuinely sweet messages, and Mickey doesn’t have anything negative to say about them, just shrugs when Ian glances his way. </p><p>“Do you ever reply?” Ian asks, tapping his finger on a message from a girl who’s thanking Mickey for being a constant source of happiness in her life.</p><p>Mickey rubs his hand across his mouth like he’s nervous about admitting to something so kind. “Sometimes.”</p><p>“Reply to this one,” Ian says, and Mickey sucks his bottom lip for just a moment before reaching out and pressing “Accept,” sending the message to his inbox so he can respond to it later.</p><p>There’s a knock on the door then, a feminine voice calling out, “Room service!”</p><p>Mickey climbs out of bed to collect their food, and Ian taps his fingers against the sides of Mickey’s phone. Considers.</p><p>And, feeling a bit silly all of a sudden, built up by Mickey’s recent closeness, by his kindness, by the fact that he’s allowing him to read his private Instagram messages, Ian taps the magnifying glass at the bottom, then taps again into the search bar at the top.</p><p>His heart skips a beat when he glances at Mickey’s recent searches.</p><p><b>Recent</b><br/>
mandymilkmustache<br/>
iang_insta<br/>
harrystyles</p><p>He’s fucking <i>second</i> on the list.</p><p>Ian smiles to himself. He’d sort of wondered whether Mickey checked his Instagram in the same way Ian checks his--almost every day, without fail.</p><p>And though it’s possible that Mickey had just searched him up once relatively recently, Ian allows himself to believe differently. He allows himself to believe that Mickey’s curious about him. That he checks up on him from time to time. Looks at his pictures. Reads his comments.</p><p>Ian doesn’t usually post to his story, so he doesn’t have any concrete proof of Mickey looking at his stuff. But still. Mickey’d searched for him. He wants to believe it wasn’t a one-time thing.</p><p>He taps over to his own profile just as Mickey’s climbing back in bed, carrying two take-out boxes that he proceeds to set on the bed near their feet.</p><p>“You’re not fuckin’ up my life, are you?” Mickey asks, craning his neck to see the screen of his phone.</p><p>“Mm,” Ian hums, thoughtful. “Debatable.”</p><p>“I’ll murder you.”</p><p>“You will, huh.”</p><p>“Ian.”</p><p>Ian laughs and sits up, feeling stupid. Silly. Every time Mickey says his name, he gets a rush he feels in his bones.</p><p>“Just taking care of some important business,” he says, scooting close so Mickey can watch what he’s about to do.</p><p>And with the swiftness of someone who knows he’s about to get in trouble but can’t resist, he taps the blue <i>follow</i> button.</p><p>Ian’s phone chimes on the nightstand with the follow notification.</p><p>“Oh, fuck you!” Mickey complains, making a grab for his phone. </p><p>There’s a tussle, some playful smacking and pinching, but eventually, Ian relents, releasing the phone. He rolls his eyes as he watches Mickey unfollow him.</p><p>“Mickey,” he says, holding in a laugh. “You follow like 50 random-ass brand accounts. The least you can do is give a follow to the guy with the best dick you’ve ever had.”</p><p>It’s a perfect moment, really. Ian watches as Mickey’s face changes from a twisted, scowling image of distaste to that of a boy who desperately wants to laugh but feels like he shouldn’t. Holding in giggles at a funeral. His cheeks flame up and lips twitch. There’s nothing but amusement in his eyes.</p><p>Ian raises an eyebrow at him, challenging.</p><p>“Fuck off, <i>the best dick I’ve ever had</i>,” Mickey forces out, a smile working its way onto his face in spite of himself. He gives Ian a shove out of pure boyish rowdiness, and Ian, dramatic, lets himself fall backward with it, bouncing on the mattress and jostling the styrofoam food boxes at the foot of the bed.</p><p>Mickey climbs on top of him, straddling his waist.</p><p>“That’s what I said,” Ian challenges, getting his hands up and holding him lightly at the hips.</p><p>“I’m not following you ‘til you follow me.”</p><p>“Oh, that’s new.” That’s usually Ian’s line.</p><p>Mickey shrugs and, hooking his thumbs just under the hem of Ian’s shirt, slowly slides it up to his ribcage.</p><p>Ian pulls a face, trying to look petulant, though all he can think about is the fact that Mickey’s got his shirt up and is now busy moving around, sliding backwards and bending until his face is level with his now-exposed stomach. </p><p>“Why should I follow you?” he asks, sighing when Mickey touches his lips to his skin in the sweetest whisper of a kiss.</p><p>“‘cause you’re my biggest fan.”</p><p>Ian laughs, belly jumping, Mickey pinning him down by his hips and smiling against him. Kissing him again. Then again. </p><p>“Nah,” Ian says, reaching a hand down and gently carding his fingers through Mickey’s hair. “I think you’re <i>my</i> biggest fan.”</p><p>Mickey snorts loudly enough that it seems like it would hurt, then rests his head on Ian’s belly like a pillow. “Shut the fuck up,” he murmurs, muffled. He pinches Ian’s sides, then brings his hands down and slips his fingers under the waistband of his pants.</p><p>---</p><p>Ian closes his eyes and breathes deeply while Mickey blows him. He’s getting better at it, more confident as well as more skilled, and it makes Ian’s belly twist, makes him come in Mickey’s mouth after just five minutes to think that maybe the blowjob Mickey’d given him the morning after Halloween had been his first.</p><p>Their pancakes are definitely getting cold, but Ian can’t help but go down on Mickey in return, still thinking about it. Wanting to make him feel good. Wanting sex to always be something so good and fulfilling for him--not simply bending over and taking it or closing his eyes and zoning out until he comes.</p><p>He takes Mickey as deeply as he can, and he rubs his thighs and his belly, and for the first time, he lets him come in his mouth.</p><p>Mickey looks stunned, like he wasn’t expecting Ian to let him finish that way, and Ian swallows, smiles, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and tries to let him know that he’d wanted to do it.</p><p>After the blowjobs come the pancakes, which Mickey takes to the microwave and reheats. They cover them with the hotel’s homemade maple syrup and eat them--along with the bacon--while watching Saturday morning cartoons.</p><p>When they’re done, Ian gets dressed while Mickey showers.</p><p>It’s the end, again. The end of whatever this is that goes on in their hotel room and not outside it.</p><p>Ian stands in the window and looks out at the city waking up around him, the sky changing from morning-gray to blue, the streets beginning to fill with traffic and the sidewalks with people.</p><p>Mickey’s out of the shower by now, and Ian hears him puttering around in the bathroom.</p><p>He wonders if what’s going on in here--the neck and belly kisses, the lying close, the food and the TV and the sex--will ever leave the room. He wonders if they’ll ever fuck in the Gallagher house, in Ian’s tiny bed, when no one else is home. He wonders if they’ll ever go to a restaurant together, just the two of them, or if they’ll ever do anything fun together--see a movie, go like, fuckin’ ice skating or, when it’s warmer, swimming.</p><p>Probably not.</p><p>It hurts. Ian knows it shouldn’t, but it does, his chest aching with it.</p><p>Playing with fire. Getting burned.</p><p>He doesn’t need the dating thing, or the love thing, or the sunset beach walks. Even if he wanted it, Mickey’d never go for it in a million years.</p><p>But there <i>are</i> things he wants that he thinks he might need one day, and the thought that they’ll never happen makes him mourn their loss even though he never had them to begin with.</p><p>---</p><p>When Mickey’s done in the bathroom, he comes out surrounded by steam. He smells good in a way that makes Ian want to hug him, pin him down just to breathe him in, but he guesses he can’t do that. Not outside of sex, at least.</p><p>Mickey nods at him in greeting, then heads over to his suitcase and pulls out jeans and a solid gray sweater.</p><p>Ian wanders over to where he’d stashed his shoes the night before, picks them up, and carries them to the bed. </p><p>And he’s halfway through, just finishing tying up one shoe, when Mickey clears his throat in a way that indicates he’s about to speak.</p><p>Ian pauses. Looks at him.</p><p>Mickey’s fidgeting, clearly nervous. He’s shirtless, and his jeans are pulled on but not done up, the front of his navy boxer briefs peeking out from the V of his open pants. </p><p>“Uh, hey,” he starts, and Ian <i>hm</i>s in acknowledgment. </p><p>“You doin’ anything for Valentine’s Day?” Mickey licks his lips and breathes in a great huff out his nose like he’s stressed. His nostrils flare.</p><p>Ian, for his part, doesn’t know what to think. He’s stunned, maybe. Frozen. He swallows and tries to figure out how to speak.</p><p>“Um, no,” he gets out, a candle flaming up in his belly. “I mean…” Stops. Starts. “No.” Sighs. Can’t believe this. “Why?”</p><p>Mickey shrugs, eyes settling on absolutely everything but Ian. He turns away and starts doing up his pants. “I dunno. Didn’t know if you wanted to like, come to the livestream thing I’m doin’ with the SneakAttack devs.</p><p>“Oh. Is it a concert kinda deal, or--”</p><p>“Nah, it’s private. Gonna be livestreaming from their studio, so just a couple people. I dunno. If you wanted to like, come or whatever.” </p><p>It occurs to Ian that there is absolutely zero reason for Mickey to be asking this aside from him simply wanting him there--as one of <i>just a couple people</i>. </p><p>Fuck. Really? </p><p>This is like, a <i>thing</i>, right? An outside-the-hotel thing. Ian blows out a breath, heart hammering away like it’s trying to beat its way out of his chest.</p><p>“It’s cool if you don’t want to,” Mickey says quickly, reaching for his shirt, apparently misinterpreting Ian’s silence.</p><p>“No!” Ian drops his foot to the floor and picks up his other shoe. “I mean, <i>yes</i>. Sounds good.”</p><p>“Uh. Yeah. Okay, cool.”</p><p>“Cool.”</p><p>It’s awkward as fuck, but when Mickey turns away again, pulling his sweater over his head, Ian’s cheeks pull up with a wide, close-mouthed grin.</p><p>He distinctly remembers that day when he’d set Mr. Mazeika’s flower bed on fire. He remembers running as fast as he could with Lip, the two of them carrying their recovered Nerf guns like rifles and giggling in a way that only kids could, the muffled sound of Mr. Mazeika’s shouts sending them into fit after fit, Ian having to double over by the trash cans to laugh, grasping at his belly.</p><p>It was fucking euphoria. He was effervescent. He felt like he needed to be tethered or else he’d float away.</p><p>He’d been stupid, and he’d played with fire, and it’d been fun as shit, the aftermath, before things got real. Before Mr. Mazeika had called fucking DCFS, everything had been great.</p><p>They part ways in much the same fashion as they always do, Ian heading out once his shoes are on, giving Mickey a <i>later</i>, telling him to text him if he’s in town again before Valentine’s Day.</p><p>
  <i>’kay. See ya.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Bye, Mickey.</i>
</p><p>He takes the L back home. Checks his social media accounts and his email on the way.</p><p>Billie from Shenanigan’s has emailed him and twelve other people a spreadsheet with training dates and times. He trains on the 28th and 29th and then reports for his first day on the job on the first of February.</p><p>Ian’s still unsure about it. Now that Mandy’s coming into Patsy’s so often, he isn’t hating it as much, even if the pay’s shit. But the thing about Shenanigan’s is that it feels like moving on. It feels like something better. And if there’s anything Ian wants right now, it’s something better.</p><p>---</p><p>At his stop, Ian gets off and then begins the ten-minute walk home. It’s a cold day, but it’s bright and crisp, the weather sunny enough to give the day the illusion of mildness. </p><p>He’s about two minutes shy of his block when his phone chimes.</p><p>It’s Mickey.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Mickey (11:22 AM):</b> hey a-list, you left your croptop </p><p>------------------------</p><p>Ian smiles. Something better.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (11:22 AM):</b> Shit. Guess it’s yours now.</p><p><b>Mickey (11:22 AM):</b> wtf am i gonna do with a shirt that’s literally for kids? it’s a youth xl.</p><p><b>Ian (11:23 AM):</b> Just your size 😉</p><p><b>Mickey (11:23 AM):</b> fuck you</p><p><b>Ian (11:24 AM):</b> Throw it out, keep it, do whatever you want with it</p><p><b>Mickey (11:24 AM):</b> whatever</p><p><b>Mickey (11:24 AM):</b> see ya</p><p><b>Ian (11:25 AM):</b> 😎🤘</p><p>------------------------</p><p>He smirks.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Mickey (11:25 AM):</b> jfc</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Ian locks his phone and shoves it back in his pocket.</p><p>He walks home that beautiful winter morning, the yellow of the sun bouncing off the tops of street lamps, parking meters, and roofs of cars, gleaming like golden fire, and he lets himself be happy because he thinks that for once, in his entire miserable fucking life, Something Better might be coming his way.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Some fun facts about Chapter 6:<br/>-Title comes from Talking Heads' "This Must Be the Place (Naive Melody)"</p><p>-The fanart is amazing, and I still can't believe that people care enough to create stuff for my writing. <b>Steorie</b>, Stephi, you are a queen. <a href="https://steorie.tumblr.com/post/642568658445615105/mickey-brings-both-hands-up-and-holds-them-to-the">Look at Mickey.</a> Just look at him. You are amazing. Thank you, thank you, thank you! <b>figallagher</b>, I remain in awe of your manips. Like, <a href="https://figallagher.tumblr.com/post/641954977576845312/cooperative-gameplay-chapter-4-gallavichy">this</a> is unreal. Thank you so much! And look at how cute Mickey is <a href="https://fucknalienlooking.tumblr.com/post/641521225387180032">here</a> by <b>fucknalienlooking</b> 😭😭😭. Thank you! And here he's <a href="https://twitter.com/sleepyheadmick/status/1363945561020243968">the most handsome boy in the world</a>--so precious that I want to scream! Thank you, <b>Mason</b>! </p><p>-There is a section that was supposed to be in here, and I was so excited to write it, but it literally just doesn't fit anywhere. I'm going to work it into the next chapter if I can.</p><p>-I think pretty much everybody thought Liam was going to post something on Instagram in this chapter. Sorry 😆, but I had always intended the pictures-at-Christmas thing to be forbidden by Ian, and Mickey was always going to turn down the selfie request at the table, though I realize that's left ambiguous in Chapter 5. And while having Liam sneak a picture would've been clever, I feel like Liam's just such a good kid that he'd listen to his brother.</p><p>-When Mo described herself in Chapter 2 as a "jack-of-all-Mickey-trades," she was being accurate. My backstory for her is that she began as Mickey's agent--that's what she's trained to do, that's her career--but the two of them got along so well and he liked her so much that he hired her to be his personal assistant. So basically, she does pretty much everything for him--gets him gigs, plane tickets, hotel rooms, etc. She still works for an agency, but he's her only client, and he's sure to take care of her financially.</p><p>-I don't know how much I'll get into the backstory of Mandy and college, but Mickey is paying for her to attend UIC. She struggled in school due to undiagnosed learning disabilities, but genuinely worked her ass off in order to maintain about a 3.0 GPA, and Mickey got her an SAT tutor and is paying her tuition.</p><p>-There aren't many new song additions this chapter (mostly because several of them were going to come from the scene I couldn't work in), but next chapter is going to have about as much music as Chapter 1. With that said, <a href="https://gallavichy.tumblr.com/post/634892463411200000/click-here-to-view-the-cooperative">here</a> is the link for the fic playlist.</p><p>-The finger-biting thing feels familiar. It didn't while I was writing it, but it does when I read it, and I don't know whether it's because I wrote it in my outline or I read it in another fic. If it's in a fic and someone can identify it, please let me know. I'm genuinely paranoid about things like this. </p><p>-Chapter 7 basically begins the portion of the fic that I've wanted to write from the beginning, and I really can't wait.</p><p>Thank you all so, so much for your constant support. I appreciate it more than you know.</p><p>♥️ Gray</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Everything Is Like a Dream</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>God, he likes him so much. It’s an overwhelming feeling.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hope you enjoy! Thank you so much for all your kind comments on the previous chapter! I cherish every one.</p><p><b>Content Warnings for Chapter 7:</b> warnings for some explicit descriptions of paranormal events in a horror game; if this is bothersome for you, I've bracketed those parts with [*]</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Pádraic Shenanigan’s is the total opposite of Patsy’s Pies in every possible way. </p><p>The staff is a crew of enthusiastic twenty-somethings, many with theater backgrounds, piercings, hipster haircuts, and earthy names like <i>Willow</i> and <i>Thorn.</i> Bizarrely, they all <i>like</i> each other, having exchanged social media information within the first couple hours of Training Day #1, and though Ian feels more than a little out of place--his general coloring and obvious Irishness being his chief reason for getting hired--he can’t deny that their energy feels like defibrillation, an electric shock at a time in his life in which he desperately needs it.</p><p>The thing is, Ian’s coworkers not only like each other, but they like <i>him</i> in a way the waitresses at Patsy’s don’t. Not that Fiona’s staff hates him, specifically. They just come to work every day to get paid, and they think Fiona cuts him too much slack. </p><p>It’s not <i>untrue</i>, really, and to be fair, it’s one of the things that’s always grated on him, that always made him feel like Fiona’s <i>sick kid brother</i> who needed extra forgiveness for doing careless shit. He hates the looks they give him when he waits tables sometimes--like he hasn’t earned the tips--and he’s never been able to miss the exasperated looks the waitresses give each other when he’s late for work and is barely even reprimanded.</p><p>At Shenanigan’s, however, his coworkers--<i>team members</i>, whatever--are always so <i>happy</i> to see him. They ask him about his life, laugh at his jokes, engage him in random conversations about family members and customers and shit they saw on the L. Keller--a tall, bearded guy with his lobes stretched and a Celtic cross tattoo on his forearm--brings all the employees four-leaf clover key chains, a solidarity thing, and Ian hooks his on his backpack zipper and only feels a little bit stupid for it.</p><p>Ian’s part of the waitstaff and, because he was able to talk his way into it, is occasionally stationed behind the bar when he’s not needed on the floor, mostly slinging beer and pouring whiskey shots for the primarily touristy clientele. After eight, the family-friendly Irish folk music over the speakers is exchanged for <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UF-7XDu4lIA">Flogging Molly</a> and drinking songs, and he gets to swear on the job, laughing and joking with the smashed pub-goers and telling them to <i>get the fuck outta here</i> when he has to playfully cut them off.</p><p>He’s even a weirdly big hit with the ladies. </p><p>Zara--a grad student by day, bartender by night--works with him, mixing cocktails and doing the complicated shit. She’s only about five-two, but she makes up for the lack of height with <i>the everything else about her</i>, her hair a pastel purple pixie cut and her face littered with piercings. Her staff T-shirt reads, in a small font across her tits, <i>stop staring at my lucky charms</i>, and she smells like warm, patchouli perfume.</p><p>“Uhhh, ya wanna stop being so fucking charming?” she asks him on his second official night behind the bar, giving him a swat with a damp towel. “We’re gonna run outta fucking cider.”</p><p>Ian nods to a pink-cheeked woman who’s gesturing for another drink. “Pretty sure that’s why I was hired?”</p><p>“To be our resident chick magnet?”</p><p>Ian snorts. “Sure.”</p><p>Zara reaches for a bottle of Jameson and shakes her head. “Yeah, gonna need you to put on a looser shirt, go make yourself all ugly and shit before the late night crowd. Supply can’t meet the demand, hot shot.”</p><p>He raises his brow at her before turning up the charm as he brings the waiting customer her cider, flashing a grin and giving her glass a little spin on the bartop. </p><p>The woman bites her lip, going for seductive, and Ian turns back to Zara, who winks at him and then reaches out a leg, kicking his shin teasingly with a worn Converse.</p><p>He likes her. On their first shift together, he’d commented on the enamel flag pin on her vest and asked her what country she was from, and she’d stared at him blankly and mumbled, “It’s the lesbian flag, dumbass.”</p><p>“Oh shit,” he’d said, holding up a hand and feeling like he somehow needed to apologize. “Sorry. That’s cool. I mean…me too. Gay, I mean. I’m not a lesbian.”</p><p>She’d given him shit about it for the rest of the night and then invited him to some <i>Queer Social</i> after work at a West Side LGBTQ youth center where she volunteers as a counselor.</p><p>He’d felt kind of weird about it--the notion that gay teenagers just met up at a place to hang out something so foreign to him he didn’t know how to react. He’d thanked her for the invite but hadn’t gone, and Zara had been cool with it the next day. Understanding. </p><p>“No worries,” she’d said at the start of their second shift together. “You not being there gave me the opportunity to tell everybody about the flag thing. It was a big hit.”</p><p>He’d stiffened his chin at her, and she’d thrown a maraschino cherry at his face. </p><p>It’s odd <i>having fun</i> at work.</p><p>Shenanigan’s feels like a game he’s good at. He obviously doesn’t want to be there forever--it isn’t a long term thing--but it’s what he needs at this moment in his life: Something Better to keep him going while he waits around for greater things. </p><p>He works four evening shifts in a row, Tuesday through Friday, then polishes off his week with a Saturday and Sunday at Patsy’s, having reduced his hours to weekends and the odd morning shift rather than quitting entirely. In the end, he couldn’t blow off Fiona, and plus, he’s got Mandy now.</p><p>She’s been coming in at least once every weekend, at first with homework but now with nothing but a request for sneaky pie while she waits for Ian to get off his shift.</p><p>They go out for pizza again the last Saturday in January to celebrate his new job, and the following afternoon they sneak off after his morning shift to an abandoned Canaryville building on the edge of Fuller Park to smoke weed. Weed’s as bad for him as alcohol--doesn’t mix right with his meds--but he likes how giggly Mandy gets at him between traded puffs, and he likes the feeling of chasing a high while gazing out at the grandeur of the Chicago skyline from a grimy Southside rooftop.</p><p>The first Saturday in February, the temperature is relatively reasonable for winter, and the two of them head to the same park where they’d looked at Christmas lights. They bring to-go coffees from Patsy’s, and they sit in swings, twisting and bumping into each other--drinking, talking about nothing.</p><p>Mandy plays on her phone and pauses every now and again to show Ian something on social media. He scrolls through his Instagram feed and idly checks Mickey’s account for the second time that day. </p><p>They haven’t texted since the morning after their last hookup. With Mickey, it feels a bit like taking two steps forward, one step back. He’d invited Ian to his Valentine’s Day stream on the 14th and then had proceeded not to message him for, so far, two weeks.</p><p>Ian knows he can text <i>him</i>--that he doesn’t have to be waiting around for Mr. Celebrity to contact him first--but he doesn’t really know what he’d say. Separated by over half a country, it feels like they’re too far apart for Ian’s everyday life to matter much to him.</p><p>Due to work, he hasn’t had the opportunity to catch any of Mickey’s weeknight livestreams, which has been another barrier--the removal of a subject that’s been vital to many of their previous text interactions.</p><p>Ian bites his lip that Saturday, gently rocking himself in the swing, and checks out Mickey’s most recent Instagram post for the thousandth time. </p><p>The picture’s relatively unremarkable, just Mickey holding up a physical copy of SneakAttack’s latest horror game, <i>Dust to Dust</i>, the game case obscuring most of his face. But what <i>is</i> interesting, what makes Ian keep checking, is Mickey’s replies to fans in the comments.</p><p>He typically replies to only one or two, but probably because of the promotional aspect and the fact that he’s likely being paid, he must’ve replied to twenty fans this time with varying degrees of seriousness.</p><p><i>The trailer looks great! The graphics are amazing. Can’t wait to play it xx</i><br/>
   <i>yeah, i’m impressed with the engine. vast improvement over past games. looking forward to seeing what they’ve done with the platform.</i></p><p><i>are u gonna play this on your channel</i> 😁😁<br/>
   <i>eventually, but i’m doin a stream of the first 4 hrs on the 14th, check it.</i></p><p><i>date me</i> 😍<br/>
   <i>no?</i></p><p>Even three days later, he’s still replying to a few comments at a time. Ian considers posting something--just to see--but he’s committed to not breaking their Instagram standoff.</p><p>And it’s just as he’s reading Mickey’s most recent reply</p><p><i>Have you played??</i><br/>
   <i>not yet, got a v-day stream at sneakattack hq next weekend.</i></p><p>that Mandy snorts, breaking him from his trance.</p><p>He looks up. “What?”</p><p>“You’ll like this.” She pulls out her AirPod and hands over her phone. </p><p>On the screen is an Instagram story just posted by Mo. It’s of Mickey, who’s driving a car, hands gripping the steering wheel and bright LA sky whiting out the window beside him. He’s got on a <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/c5e4f80428b4a26a37d4392829857c20/748e7e5731836b38-5c/s540x810/8466b32efd4d86ab0f2b8c40ede4b293a6b0bf82.jpg">tie-dye Led Zeppelin shirt</a>, and his hair is rumpled and slightly messy like he’s been driving with the sunroof open, the wind having erased any styling he’d done earlier in the day.</p><p>Ian turns up the volume, allowing the audio to play out.</p><p><i>One of these things is not like the other</i>, the white text reads, followed by three clips, all largely the same, of Mickey driving, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, and clearly enjoying the music playing over the speakers.</p><p>In the first clip, he’s listening to Korn’s <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yPsqQ13UduQ">Coming Undone</a>. In the second, it’s Slipknot’s <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-XlW-cyAdiw">Psychosocial</a>, Mickey mouthing along with <i>And the rain will kill us all</i>.</p><p>The third, however, makes Ian duck his head and then immediately flush up with embarrassment when he realizes there’s no way Mandy didn’t see. He avoids looking at her as he watches Mickey sway a little, stuck in traffic, to Ariana Grande’s <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NplFevPlYDI">34+35</a>.</p><p>While Ian’s watching, Mo adds two more clips from that same moment, the first with Mickey idly mouthing along to <i>You such a dream come true, true, make a bitch wanna hit snooze, ooh</i>, his lips barely moving as if he’s doing it unconsciously. The second is from immediately following, apparently after Mickey’s figured out he’s being filmed, his arm extended and his middle finger filling most of the shot. He clearly doesn’t care all that much, though, and it makes Ian smile to see him pull back his hand, reach toward the radio knob, and crank up the volume almost obnoxiously loud for the final chorus.</p><p>Breath coming quick, Ian hands back Mandy’s phone and refreshes his own Instagram feed, meaning to watch the story again from his own account but finding that it isn’t there.</p><p>“I can’t see it,” he comments, holding out his phone for Mandy to check the little row of unwatched stories at the top of his feed.</p><p>Mandy nods and turns to her own phone, silent for a moment as she apparently sends a message or a text. Finally, she shrugs and says, “It was posted to her Close Friends.”</p><p>Ian didn’t even know that was a thing. He takes a distracted sip of his coffee and settles into the weird feeling simmering in his stomach. He knows he shouldn’t have it--he and Mo aren’t close friends--but it’s still slightly and unfairly disappointing that he hasn’t made the cut.</p><p>Idly, he wonders how many other Mickey stories he’s missed and didn’t even know. </p><p>It’s stupid. He looks off into the distance, embarrassed for some reason, watching a couple kids play on the jungle gym.</p><p>“It’s nothing personal,” Mandy clarifies, and Ian doesn’t know whether this is a response to something on his face or a realization Mandy had about how her previous statement sounded. “She’s protective. Like, goes straight up mama bear over him sometimes.”</p><p>Ian hums. “Yeah, I talked to her at the charity concert a couple weeks ago. She said they were friends?”</p><p>“Mo was his first agent when he moved out to LA when he was eighteen.” Mandy makes a face and takes a drink of her coffee. “And she <i>liked</i> him.” </p><p>As if it’s unbelievable that anyone could do such a thing. </p><p>“Then after like a year, he hired her as his PA, too, so she basically just like, does all his scheduling shit and gets him gigs, and he pays her a crap-ton of money.” Mandy shrugs. “She’s good to him. Kinda like a big sister. They hang out and stuff, I think? Surprise, surprise, he doesn’t have any other friends, so she’s like all he’s got.”</p><p>That hurts Ian’s heart. </p><p>He knows Mandy’s a petty little sister ragging on her brother--she doesn’t mean it--but he desperately wants to say, <i>I’m his friend. He’s got me.</i></p><p>Mandy must catch something on his face, as she says, curious, “What?”</p><p>“What’s he like in LA? Does he, uh, like, date a lotta guys or whatever?” Ian plugs up his mouth with the lip of his coffee to prevent himself from saying more.</p><p>Mandy eyes him, and Ian knows she’s onto him, but he just shrugs at her and cuts his eyes back to the kids climbing the jungle gym.</p><p>“I guess?” Mandy says, unsure. “He doesn’t talk about that with me, but he’s young, rich, and in fucking Los Angeles, so I’m sure he’s sluttin’ it up.” She smirks and sips at her coffee. “It’s what I’d do. Wouldn’t you?”</p><p>Ian shrugs. “Yeah.”</p><p>They’re quiet for a moment. Ian pushes once against the ground, sending him into a lopsided, wobbly swing due to the way he’s only holding on to one chain, his other hand gripping his coffee. He almost bumps against Mandy, who moves to the side, avoiding the danger zone.</p><p>Once his swing’s lost momentum, Mandy lifts her legs and swings sideways, colliding with him and causing both of their lukewarm coffees to slosh onto their hands.</p><p>They laugh and shove at each other childishly, then settle.</p><p>Mandy sniffs. Ian downs the rest of his coffee.</p><p>“I don’t know if he like, <i>dates</i>-dates anybody or not,” she says suddenly, breaking the silence. “He’s never mentioned any guys or brought anyone to Chicago. I mean.” She shrugs. “Not that he’s <i>going</i> to. He’s out, but he doesn’t really talk about it. It’s like he’s embarrassed about it or something. Gets all like, squirmy when I try to talk about boys.”</p><p>That’s kinda cute. Ian smiles because he can picture it perfectly.</p><p>Mandy grins at him, blue eyes sparkling and bright. “You can tell me if you like him, you know. I won’t tell.” She holds out her pinkie, black polish chipped in a way that reminds Ian of Mickey.</p><p>Ian stares at her, chewing his lip. Finally, with a shrug, he hooks his pinkie around hers, and the two of them shake once.</p><p>But even after that, he doesn’t admit to anything. Just <i>hmm</i>s a little and, after scraping his name into the styrofoam coffee cup with his thumbnail, says, “He invited me to go with him to his Valentine’s Day stream next week.”</p><p>Mandy <i>awwww</i>s obnoxiously and swings sideways again--just enough to gently bump their upper arms together. Ian shrugs her off.</p><p>He wants to ask her if she thinks it means anything. If--based on everything she knows about her brother, all sixteen or so years she lived with him--this is something he’d normally do. If he should read into it.</p><p>He doesn’t. Instead, Ian sets his empty coffee cup on the ground and spins several times in his swing until the twist in the chain is just above his head. He kicks off once, then twice, and swings and untwists in a way that immediately makes him dizzy.</p><p>Mandy takes a picture of him with her phone when he’s back bracing himself, feet to the dirt and hands gripping the chains, head spinning and giving him a lazy grin.</p><p>She texts it to someone, the evidence in the way she immediately lowers her phone after snapping the picture, types, and bites her lip to hold in a smile.</p><p>“Mandy,” he complains, knowing what she’s done. “Don’t.”</p><p>“Oh, shut up.” She watches her phone screen for several seconds after sending the text, and then, after a faint <i>whoosh</i> noise, holds it out for Ian to see.</p><p>The picture’s not all bad, Ian mostly looking just shy of completely nuts with happiness, his dizzy grin huge. She’d captioned it with three heart-eyes emojis, and Mickey--or <b>Butthead #3</b>, as he’s saved in her phone--has replied</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Mickey (2:21 PM):</b> abovetheinfluence.com</p><p>------------------------</p><p>“Mandy.”</p><p>She laughs and swings into him again. “Lighten up. It’s Mickey, not fucking Harry Styles. He used to sit on my lap and fart on me when we were kids.”</p><p>Ian makes a face at her, petulant. But when he realizes she isn’t going to stop giggling like a little girl, he gives up and swings out to the side, the two of them meeting in the middle in a crash that sends them both propelling in the opposite direction.</p><p>Whatever. Fine.</p><p>He lets himself laugh with her.</p><p>He lets himself be a normal teenage boy with a crush on his friend’s older brother.</p><p>---</p><p>It’s even better when, an hour later as he’s catching the L home, the older brother in question texts him.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Mickey (3:44 PM):</b> stop hanging out with my sister</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Ian smiles.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (3:44 PM):</b> Uhhhh no?</p><p><b>Mickey (3:45 PM):</b> shouldn’t have brought you to meet her on xmas</p><p><b>Ian (3:45 PM):</b> Don’t worry, she’s not sharing ALL your secrets 😉</p><p><b>Mickey (3:45 PM):</b> 🖕</p><p><b>Ian (3:46 PM):</b> I did however see a lovely video of you singing to a song about 69ing, so there’s that.</p><p><b>Mickey (3:46 PM):</b> jfc, eat me</p><p><b>Ian (3:46 PM):</b> That a request?</p><p><b>Mickey (3:46 PM):</b> it’s a fuck you</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Ian smirks and shoves his phone in his pocket, assuming it’s the end of the conversation. Not five minutes later, however, Mickey texts him again.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Mickey (3:50 PM):</b> hey, so i’ll be in town saturday night if you wanna stay over before we go to the livestream sunday.</p><p><b>Mickey (3:50 PM):</b> if you’re still down for it</p><p><b>Ian (3:51 PM):</b> Cool</p><p>------------------------</p><p>He bites his lip and considers for just a moment before typing,</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (3:52 PM):</b> Get more lube, we were almost out. </p><p><b>Mickey (3:52 PM):</b> yes, your highness</p><p><b>Ian (3:52 PM):</b> 🤴</p><p>------------------------</p><p>He smiles the rest of the way home.</p><p>---<br/>
---</p><p>Even though Ian generally has fun at work, the week crawls by in what feels like an endless stream of Irish punk music, raucous tourists, and drunk women taking selfies with him at the bar. </p><p>He meets up with Mandy again on Thursday morning to help her study for her Behavioral Neuroscience test, and afterward, they go to Hunter’s house to get weed and smoke it with him on his back porch. </p><p>He’s nothing like Ian was expecting, this soft, unremarkable brunet who looks like a youth pastor. He and Mandy met at a party over fall break and have been fucking ever since, and though Mandy says otherwise, it’s obvious to Ian that they’re together in all the ways that matter. Hunter puts his hand on her thigh when he sits down on the step beside her and gives her a <i>hello</i> squeeze.</p><p>He’s nice enough and knows his weed. Ian makes casual conversation with the two of them and tries not to feel too much like a third wheel. They talk about college and music. Hunter has a record collection he drones on about ad nauseum, and Mandy steals the joint from his fingers, takes a hit, and tells him to shut up through a cloud of smoke. </p><p>They eventually move inside to watch a serial killer documentary on Netflix, and the third wheel sensation becomes impossible to ignore when Hunter and Mandy start making out like a pair of high schoolers.</p><p>“Jesus Christ.” </p><p>Ian escapes the situation, telling Mandy he’ll text her later, and then heads to White Castle for a double cheese slider combo to curb his munchies. </p><p>He carries the bag with him onto the L, heading home, and when he’s two stops away from 47th, he decides to text Mickey on a whim, heart in his throat, brain like cotton.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (2:12 PM):</b> Your sister and her boyfriend just third wheeled me pretty hard 👎</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Mickey replies immediately.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Mickey (2:12 PM):</b> who the fuck’s her bf?</p><p><b>Ian (2:13 PM):</b> Some guy named Hunter, she told you about him at Christmas.</p><p><b>Mickey (2:13 PM):</b> gross</p><p><b>Mickey (2:13 PM):</b> kick his ass for me</p><p><b>Ian (2:14 PM):</b> Will do</p><p><b>Ian (2:14 PM):</b> He does have good weed though, so maybe not.</p><p><b>Mickey (2:14 PM):</b> kick his ass and take his weed, problem solved.</p><p><b>Ian (2:15 PM):</b> I like the way you think</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Mickey doesn’t reply, so Ian puts his phone away and spends the rest of the L-ride munching fries from his greasy bag.</p><p>When he gets off at 47th five minutes later and takes the stairs down the platform, his phone chimes.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Mickey (2:21 PM):</b> got lube btw</p><p><b>Ian (2:21 PM):</b> Your ass and I thank you. 🍑</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Maybe that was an awkward thing to say. </p><p>Mickey doesn’t reply to that ever, and Ian deletes the text out of their thread that night to keep from having to cringe every time he opens iMessage.</p><p>Two steps forward, one step back.</p><p>It’s a silly thing, and it’s probably completely normal for Mickey to have not replied to that as it was an embarrassingly dumb comment with no clear follow-up. But Ian can’t help but feel like whenever they’ve got something going, there’s always a small pull-back.</p><p>He realizes Mickey isn’t him and that they’ve each got their own way of communicating. Ian would’ve sent back a teasing emoji in response to <i>Your ass and I thank you</i>. 🍑 That doesn’t mean Mickey would have.</p><p>He hates that he overthinks the dumbest shit and underthinks things that are actually important.</p><p>---</p><p>Mickey doesn’t text him again until Saturday night, and it’s after nine and late enough that Ian’s got himself convinced Mickey’s changed his mind about wanting him to stay with him.</p><p>There’s no greeting, just a room number, and Ian grabs his backpack--complete with the dangling four-leaf clover keychain--and heads out.</p><p>The hotel’s crowded, as can be expected on Valentine’s Day weekend, and Ian finds himself for the first time sharing an elevator with other people--two smiling couples with overnight bags, likely locals getting away from their 2.5 kids for the night.</p><p>His singleness hits him then in a way it never has before.</p><p>Ian’s never really given a shit about it. Sure, he’s wanted a boyfriend--years ago had a thought in the back of his mind of that hot cadet he’d meet at West Point--but he’s never actively stood in a room and felt <i>single</i> and odd for it.</p><p>Ascending to the sixth floor of an upscale Gold Coast hotel--on his way to hook up with a rich guy with whom he has hardly a chance romantically and surrounded by four people clearly in love--makes his stomach hurt.</p><p>He stares at his Nikes. They’re scuffed at the toes and a little tan in the white bits from Southside grime. Idly, he wonders if he should’ve worn his boots.</p><p>The elevator reaches his floor when he’s pondering this, trying to avoid the awkwardness he feels. It’s a different floor than usual, and Ian doesn’t know what to expect from it. It’s not a corner room, not the skyline loft, and it’s in a different location than the king suite.</p><p>He wanders down the hall to 614 and only hesitates for a second before knocking.</p><p>It’s random, uncalled for, this flash-of-lightning in his brain, but the first thing Ian thinks when Mickey opens the door is <i>I wonder if I’ll ever get to greet him with a kiss.</i></p><p>Mickey’s wearing a <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/bc2bf79e697014385cdd700f616e3de0/ceabd674954c6bde-b0/s1280x1920/f855588cf4d418d9fd9743f0df02f519f8515689.jpg">purple long-sleeved Kurt Cobain shirt</a> and his Adidas track pants. The purple looks nice on him, and Ian wants to tell him so, but he doesn’t. Instead, he smiles and raises his eyebrows at him, and Mickey steps to the side and lets him in.</p><p>“Hey,” Mickey greets, shutting and locking the door behind him. “Mo got us burgers from that place next door if you’re hungry.” He thumbs toward the desk where there’s a double-stack of styrofoam take-out boxes.</p><p>The room is beautiful--slightly smaller than what they’re used to but the smallness somehow enhancing the incredible lake and city views out the two full walls of windows. </p><p>The first thing Ian’s eyes go to, however, sending his stomach into that same nervous twist he’d had in the elevator, is <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/bf8d602a99528f29830cb3f7d9f64230/53ca3d92b2077b24-4d/s1280x1920/b833f524da3bd52a9323c1b5766739df018ff790.jpg">the two double beds</a> against the wall instead of their usual singular king.</p><p>It’s Valentine’s weekend, so it’s almost certainly just because the king rooms were full. He’s not going to bother to read anything into it. But Ian can’t help but be disappointed. He can’t help but think, as he wanders over and sets down his bag in the desk chair, that the double bed situation is going to result in an awkward conversation come bedtime. </p><p>He greets Mickey belatedly, then puts his hands on his hips, scanning the room.</p><p>On one of the beds is an open MacBook Pro, Mickey’s phone, and those white headphones he always wears in his livestreams. The computer is playing “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6ywIjjj3YuA">Cherub Rock</a>” by Smashing Pumpkins, and Mickey’s signature water glass filled with cigarette butts is on the nightstand between the two beds.</p><p>Ian wonders how long he’s been here and why he didn’t text him earlier. He shakes his head, feels dumb for the thought, and removes his coat.</p><p>“How’ve you been?” he asks uncomfortably, draping his coat over his bag and shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans.</p><p>Mickey shrugs. “Fine.” He initially sounds bored, like Ian’s just asked the most flavorless question in the world, but after a second, he wiggles his nose--a nervous tick--and glances at him. “You been okay?”</p><p>“Yeah. All good here.”</p><p>“Cool.”</p><p>A beat of silence. </p><p>It’s so awkward that Ian can’t help but snicker at it, which sends Mickey into a frown that quickly melts into his own beautiful smile. </p><p>Tension broken. There’s a squeeze in Ian’s chest.</p><p>“So you hungry, or…?” Mickey comes over and picks up the take-out boxes, holding one out for Ian.</p><p>With no official seating area, there’s nowhere to sit together, so the two of them park themselves separately, one on each bed. Mickey’s got on <i>Rick and Morty</i>, and he unmutes it casually before popping open his styrofoam food box.</p><p>Ian’s taken back to their first time in this hotel, Mickey seemingly embarrassed at having been caught watching it and quickly shutting it off in a cute scramble. No more, it seems. Mickey turns up the volume.</p><p>They eat in silence for a few minutes, settling into the flavor of what tastes like a BBQ burger. Mickey gets up then and, as if having forgotten earlier, grabs himself a can of Bud Light from the fridge and Ian a bottle of Coke from a full six-pack.</p><p>“So when’s the wedding?”</p><p>Ian chews his mouthful of burger, giving a confused hum, and swallows heavily. “What?”</p><p>“Pretty sure my sister’s tryna put a ring on it, man.”</p><p>“Mm.” Ian shrugs and holds up his ring finger. “But alas, I’m still very much a single lady.”</p><p>He’s expecting Mickey to snort, to call him a dumbass, but to his surprise, he just rolls his eyes and smiles, this sweet, toothy thing that makes Ian look down at his food. He feels the tips of his ears turning red.</p><p>“She talks about you all the fuckin’ time,” Mickey murmurs after several silent seconds, enough time for him to hand Ian his Coke and return back to his bed and his burger.</p><p>“Uhh. About?”</p><p>Ian hadn’t really been under the impression that Mickey and Mandy talked regularly. He looks to Mickey, who shrugs.</p><p>“‘<i>Ian</i> helped me study.’ ‘Me and <i>Ian</i> smoked at the old warehouse.’ ‘<i>Ian</i> got a new job.”’</p><p>Ian jumps up in a hurry and goes to grab his bag, which he holds up to show off his dorky four-leaf clover keychain. “You’re in the presence of Pádraic Shenanigan’s newest crewmember.”</p><p>“Jesus Christ. Is this the place with the ridiculous-ass shirt?”</p><p>Ian grins, happy Mickey remembered and then immediately feeling dumb for the happiness, as <i>obviously</i> he remembered. He’s not fucking senile.</p><p>“You like, river dance and shit?”</p><p>“Yes, Mickey, that’s exactly what I do.” Ian returns to the bed and picks back up his burger. “Dress like a leprechaun. Speak in an Irish accent. Talk about pots of gold and rainbows. Y’know.”</p><p>“Well, they picked the right guy for the job.”</p><p>Ian holds out his arm in a wry expression of <i>clearly</i> and starts working on the last half of his burger.</p><p>“So what’re you working on?” he asks after a couple minutes of nothing but the soft sounds of eating, the slurps of drinking, and <i>Rick and Morty</i>. He eyes the screen of Mickey’s MacBook, which reveals two side-by-side open windows--a video editing program and Spotify.</p><p>Mickey hums and finishes the last bite of his burger, taking his time chewing, swallowing, and washing it down with his beer before answering. “Makin’ my playlist for tomorrow.”</p><p>“Oh yeah?”</p><p>“Mm.” He nudges at the computer with his toe, tilting it toward Ian, who squints and then bends. And then, when he still can’t see it well, figures <i>what the hell</i> and moves beds, crossing the gap in between and crawling on beside Mickey.</p><p>Mickey doesn’t seem to mind--just moves over his take-out box and shifts a couple inches to the right. He pulls his laptop toward him and enlarges the Spotify window.</p><p>Ian’s never looked for Mickey on Spotify, so he can’t be sure, but what he sees in front of him looks private, for Mickey’s eyes only, the profile picture just a dark circle with a humanoid silhouette and the username <b>mikaleks</b>. Open within his account is a playlist entitled <i>v-day stream</i>, and he’s added just a few songs so far: “Love On Top,” Pat Benatar’s “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vo6PgC0cP4c">Love Is A Battlefield</a>,” Mariah Carey’s “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UjAOYDqGcaE">Fantasy</a>,” and “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R5RRHt-sSX8">Stupid Love</a>” by Lady Gaga.</p><p>Ian doesn’t comment on how obviously gay it is--how the stans are gonna go wild with it--and instead says, “You should add ‘<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uLL2xTK35Qc">Lover</a>.’”</p><p>“The fuck’s up with you and Taylor Swift shit?”</p><p>“I’d say ‘Shake it Off,’ but it’s not really a love song.”</p><p>“Yeah, yeah, fuck you,” Mickey murmurs, indignant, but still searches up “Lover” and adds it to the playlist.</p><p>Ian kicks off his sneakers, criss-crosses his legs, and gets comfortable. For the next twenty minutes, they finish up their drinks while working together to add songs to Mickey’s playlist. Ian gets out his own phone and trawls Spotify, intermittently playing bits of songs for Mickey’s approval.</p><p>Together, they add New Found Glory’s cover of “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7AwFFflxjG8">Kiss Me</a>,” Frank Ocean’s “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uzS3WG6__G4">Pink + White</a>,” and The Cure’s “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tM5onRkileU">Mint Car</a>.”  </p><p>At one point, Ian plays “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FVaVydg28Qk">Pony</a>” just for fun, and Mickey tells him to fuck off.</p><p>“Why not?” Ian bites back a smile, turning it on full-blast until the chorus drowns out all other sound in the hotel room. He raises his voice to add, “Get all your fans in the mood for love.”</p><p>Mickey makes a comical puking sound and Ian giggles like a kid, turning back down the volume. “Okay, okay, okay,” he concedes, smirking. “If we’re not gonna go with that classic, what about this one?”</p><p>He quickly searches something up and presses play.</p><p>“Oh my God!” Mickey yells the moment Ariana sings, <i>You might think I’m crazy, the way I’ve been cravin’</i>. He puts his hands over his ears and drops backward onto the pillows in a way that’s so dramatically childish that Ian feels like his belly’s been filled with helium.</p><p>He turns it up.</p><p>“What?” he asks innocently, lying down beside Mickey, head propped on his hand and their bodies six inches apart. “Thought you might wanna put this one on there. Y’know. ‘cause you like it so much.”</p><p>“Go to hell.”</p><p>“Huh, Mickey?” Ian pokes him, a smile beginning to split his face in two. “What’s that?”</p><p>“I’m gonna kill Mo.”</p><p>“Hm. Really doesn’t change the fact that you love this song so fuckin’ much.”</p><p>Mickey rolls his eyes at him. “Whatever.” He twists onto his back, face turned to the ceiling, and shrugs, his expression one of the absolute most put-upon confidence Ian’s ever seen. “Who gives a fuck?”</p><p>“Me. I think it’s kinda hot.”</p><p>“<i>Chh</i>.”</p><p>Ian grins and lets a little huff of breath escape between his teeth. Cautiously, as if attempting to pet a wild animal, he sets his phone down on the bed between them, the speakers and therefore the song muffled by the pillow, and places his palm on Mickey’s belly.</p><p>He gives him a gentle, affectionate rub, feeling the softness and the warmth through the fabric of his T-shirt. He swallows, heart in his throat, before steeling himself and asking, “You ever sixty-nined?”</p><p>Mickey scoffs and shrugs, a <i>yeah, obviously</i> sort of expression, and Ian knows instinctively that he’s lying. There’s no way. </p><p>Ian doesn’t know much of anything about Mickey’s sexual history--how many guys he’s fucked, how often he fucks--but he knows in his <i>bones</i> now, after thinking about it off and on for almost four months, that Ian’s dick was probably the first one he’d ever sucked. And if not, there was still no way he was experienced enough with it to have full-on sixty-nined with somebody.</p><p>Not that Mickey was ever <i>bad</i> at it, but he’d seemed so tentative that first time. The second time, there was a little too much teeth. He’s starting to get the hang of it now, the third one the last time they’d hooked up already better.</p><p>Ian drags his nails gently and lazily up and down Mickey’s belly. Thinking. He studies Mickey’s face, which is relaxed into Ian’s ministrations, his mouth soft and eyes drifting across the ceiling like he’s thinking, too.</p><p>“Hey,” Ian murmurs.</p><p>Mickey tilts his head to look at him. Raises his eyebrows.</p><p>“Ya wanna?” Ian lets his hand stray from soft stomach to the hard bone of pelvis, then across the bulge of Mickey’s dick. </p><p>He applies just the littlest bit of pressure, rubbing his palm in circles against the squishiness, which slowly starts to become firmer the more he moves against it, this ever-increasing stiffness beneath the slick polyester material.</p><p>Mickey continues to watch him, mouth dropping open a fraction to expose the tips of his front teeth. He breathes in slow but audible pants, pausing every now and again to swallow.</p><p>Ian stares at his mouth in a way that’s probably too obvious, then leans closer, latching his own mouth onto the line of Mickey’s jaw, just under his earlobe.</p><p>He massages him with his hand as he sucks and licks him there, then up in the warm space behind his ear and down the column of his neck.</p><p>Ian takes a moment to inhale him as he begins to cup around Mickey’s now half-hard dick, stroking the shaft of it between thumb, fore, and middle fingers. He smells day-sweat and salty warmth and the faintest trace of a perfumy shampoo.</p><p>He kisses him, a proper little squeaking kiss, right on the side of his neck, then moves his hand away and slides it down the front of his pants, taking him out.</p><p>Mickey gasps at the contact with the air, and Ian pulls back and smiles at him affectionately. He slides down, pushing Mickey’s T-shirt up his chest on the way, and peppers a series of soft, wet kisses across the flesh of his belly before lowering his head to take the two inches of Mickey’s dick poking out of his waistband into his mouth.</p><p>Dragging his hands down Mickey’s sides, he hooks his fingers under the elastic band of his pants and underwear and pulls them down his thighs, mouth working around his cock and lowering, taking in more the more that’s exposed. </p><p>Eventually, Ian has to get his left hand up to grip Mickey’s dick and give him some sense of control while he bobs on him and uses his right hand to push his pants down as far as they’ll go.</p><p>“Shit,” Mickey whispers, and Ian looks up to see his pleasured expression just visible down the line of his body, his head propped up on the mound of pillows behind him.</p><p>He’s hard as a rock now and somehow still growing harder--a warm, heavy weight against Ian’s tongue, velvety soft and smooth with just the tiniest bumps of a couple pronounced veins running along the side.</p><p>Ian feels a hand on his shoulder, then at the neck of his henley, grabbing and pulling in an attempt to get his shirt off. In acquiescence, he drags his tongue back and forth across the underside of the head of Mickey’s cock, gives him a handful of sucking kisses, then pulls away, taking a moment to swipe at the spit gathered in the corners of his mouth.</p><p>Mickey wiggles then, and Ian rolls away so the two of them can work on getting undressed.</p><p>Apparently unsatisfied with letting Ian do it, Mickey helps him get his shirt off, then moves his hands to Ian’s belt, breath coming fast as he works, opening his pants and wasting no time in pulling his dick from his boxers. </p><p>Mickey strokes him, straightening to press his open mouth against Ian’s neck, then just at his collarbone, licking and sucking at him. Ian swallows heavily and starts pulling up Mickey’s shirt, works the fabric up under his armpits and then pauses, breathing hard while he waits for Mickey to unlatch his mouth so Ian can pull his shirt up over his head.</p><p>Breaths coming fast and loud--the only sounds that haven’t quite turned to white noise save for the muffled sound of an indistinguishable pop song playing out from Ian’s phone--Ian and Mickey undress, shirts hitting the floor, pants and underwear coming off together and in heaps shoved to the foot of the bed. Mickey closes his laptop and tosses it, his phone, and his headphones onto the other bed to give them room.</p><p>And well, for all Ian was joking about this, he’s only ever done it himself twice--both times with Ned when he was like, sixteen. He tries to affect an air of confidence, though--tries to guide Mickey.</p><p>The two of them maneuver themselves around until they’re head-to-crotch--both on their sides, and get down to business. Ian gets his arm around Mickey’s slim waist and squeezes at his ass as he blows him, the upside-down sensation funny in his mouth but nowhere near unappealing. </p><p>Mickey, for his part, tries his best--this absolutely, 100% being his first time--but pulls away frequently to make gaspy noises, his nails digging into Ian’s thigh in a sexy sting that sends a surge of arousal through Ian when he thinks about what’s happening.</p><p>Holy fuck. Holy fuck, fucking fuck, he’s 69ing with Mickey.</p><p>He pulls away for a moment, presses his wet lips against the softness of Mickey’s thigh, and smiles against his skin. Smiles into a smear of a kiss that he can’t help but give.</p><p>He squeezes his eyes shut when he feels the hot, humid grip of Mickey’s mouth back on him, licking, sucking, the head of Ian’s cock dragging against the ridges at the roof of his mouth then back toward his tonsils.</p><p>“Fuck.” Swallowing, he moves back to Mickey’s dick--which has begun to leak the tiniest amount of fluid that beads out onto the tip--and takes it back into his mouth. He tastes the salt of his arousal, feels the little bounces and thumps against his tongue, and gets his free hand on him, doing as best he can to make him feel as good as possible, to make his toes curl.</p><p>Mickey pulls off Ian’s cock just long enough to pant, then goes back in, clearly doing his best to bob on him, to get his hand around him and stroke in counter to the drags of his mouth, and Ian wants to tell him, <i>You’re doing so good, so, so fucking good</i> but he can’t, can’t because his belly’s in knots.</p><p>He pulls off, sucks his own middle finger into his mouth, getting it spit-slick, and brings his arm back around Mickey’s waist. Dragging his wet finger into the cleft of Mickey’s ass, he gets his mouth back on him as he plays with his hole, pressing his finger against his warm, secret place just enough to dip in the littlest bit, then just a little bit further.</p><p>Ian doesn’t want to force it, and he needs lube if he wants an easy slide, so there’s no chance of him getting at Mickey’s prostate right now. That’s okay. He just works his finger in and out up to the first knuckle, pets at him, and succumbs to the intoxicating feeling of doing this--having this--sucking and being sucked and existing in a constant state of intense arousal, his belly full of fire that’s slowly spreading.</p><p>---</p><p>When Mickey’s close, he starts to grip at the back of Ian’s thigh, fingers almost pinching him, leaving pink marks. He pulls off to breathe, dives back in, groans in a way that sends vibrations all across the surface of Ian’s dick and a tingle into his gut.</p><p>“Fuck,” Ian whispers, stretching out his legs, curling his toes.</p><p>He pushes into the pillows, apparently inadvertently adjusting the positioning of his phone and causing the music to blast out, now free and unmuffled. </p><p>Mickey pauses the movements of his mouth for a moment--fucking “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U6dag1Yzv6U">Honeypie</a>” by JAWNY playing almost blaringly loud--and it’s enough to make Ian laugh.</p><p>He gently removes his finger from Mickey’s ass and kisses his thigh instead, a giggly kiss. He hugs his body to him, runs his nose across his skin.</p><p>In return, Mickey smacks his thigh in a way that can’t help but feel affectionate and then reaches up to grab Ian’s phone. He pauses the song and shoves the device under the pillow.</p><p>“Fuck you,” he murmurs to nothing in particular, making Ian laugh again, and then goes back to business.</p><p>---</p><p>Mickey reaches orgasm first. Ian pulls him to the edge with his mouth and then jerks him fast and rough until he bites Ian’s thigh and comes on his neck and chin in a way that would’ve been completely avoidable if Ian’d had any desire to avoid it.</p><p>It’s hot as hell, and all he can do is get his mouth back on him and clean him off, swallowing the bit dripping down the head and in that moment, wanting every inch, every ounce of him in every way.</p><p>After taking a moment to recover, Mickey half-jerks, half-sucks and kisses Ian to completion, taking him deep in his mouth at the end and giving a slight gag that Ian feels manifest as a quick jump in his belly, the thought of Mickey choking on him somehow making him come all the harder, nails digging into the flesh of Mickey’s ass and breath coming in hot, rhythmic <i>ah</i>s in time with the pulses and throbs of pleasure.</p><p>They lie there when they’re done, still in position, waiting for their breaths to slow. Ian runs his thumb back and forth along the gentle indention of the V of Mickey’s pelvis, right where his hip meets his groin, and strokes idly at the prickly hairs there.</p><p>Mickey pulls at Ian’s leg hair.</p><p>“Ow!” he complains, kicking at him, only to have Mickey get an arm around the back of his knees, holding him still.</p><p>There’s a struggle, Ian trying to wiggle out of his hold, and then Mickey’s pulling his leg hairs again in a way that would maybe piss Ian off if it weren’t making Mickey laugh so sweetly.</p><p><i>God, he’s fucking cute</i>. That’s the overwhelming thought in Ian’s mind as he sits up, finally manages to kick out of Mickey’s grip, and rolls off the bed.</p><p>He checks the time. 11:57. Stretches. Scratches his belly.</p><p>Mickey’s come has dried into a sticky film on Ian’s neck, and he heads to the bathroom to clean it with a wet washcloth.</p><p>He stares at himself in the mirror during the process, cheeks pink and eyes shiny. He looks happy. Pleased. He wipes at his chin. He is.</p><p>When he returns to the bedroom, Mickey’s getting dressed, his pants halfway up his thighs.</p><p>Here it goes. Ian glances between the two beds and suddenly has no idea what to do. Mickey’s giving him no indication as to the solution to the <i>Which bed?</i> problem, as he’s just casually adjusting his trackpants on his waist and then reaching for his T-shirt.</p><p>After a sigh, Ian pads naked over to his backpack and takes out a black V-neck he’d checked and double-checked was actually his. He pulls it on, then grabs his discarded boxers from the foot of the bed.</p><p>While he’s stepping into them, Mickey goes to get another beer from the fridge and then retrieves his MacBook, phone, and headphones from the second bed. He pops the tab on the Bud Light, slurps away the foam, and then climbs back on the bed they’d just had sex on and opens the laptop.</p><p>Back to work, maybe.</p><p>Maybe that’s Ian’s answer. He gets himself a water from the fridge and makes his way over to the currently unoccupied bed.</p><p>Mickey works for another hour, doing something on the video editing program that leads Ian to ask him if he’s the one who makes his intro videos and edits his Let’s Plays for YouTube.</p><p>Mickey shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Yeah?” he says, scratching his stubbly chin. “I don’t do the art and shit, but…” Another shrug. Humble.</p><p>Ian presses his lips together and thinks about all the little things he wants to know about Mickey. A thousand things. A million things.</p><p>He gets drowsy thinking about it. Warm. <i>Family Guy</i>’s on Adult Swim, and Ian’s watching it idly, eyes flitting between the show and Mickey. He stretches out on the bed.</p><p>“You don’t gotta stay up,” Mickey murmurs suddenly, and Ian feels like he’s lost a bit of time in-between blinks. He checks his watch. 1:04.</p><p>Clearly, Mickey isn’t meaning for him to get in bed with him now. His crap’s all over the place, his headphones and phone and laptop. A notebook and pen. Some kind of folded paper he keeps referring back to as he works.</p><p>Ian yawns, shrugs, and well, yeah. Okay.</p><p>He pulls back the covers of the second bed and climbs under. Mickey reaches over and switches off the lamp for him.</p><p>He watches Mickey work for as long as he can, sees him turn on the bluetooth on his headphones and pull them on, not wanting to disturb Ian with the noise. The computer screen flashes in the dim light as Mickey watches the video he’s edited, and Ian falls asleep to the color washing across his beautiful face.</p><p>---</p><p>Ian doesn’t know what time he wakes--just knows that it feels like not much time has passed since he fell asleep to begin with. He wakes to the sound of the remote being placed back on the nightstand after Mickey’d used it to switch off the TV.</p><p>And while he flits in and out of dreamworld, lids too heavy to open for long periods of time, there are flashes of Mickey getting ready for bed.</p><p>Skin as he pulls off his shirt and pants, standing awkwardly for a moment in just his gray boxer briefs.</p><p>The mini-fridge opening and Mickey pulling out a bottle of water.</p><p>A dip at the foot of Ian’s bed, Mickey sitting there as if thinking. The sudden disappearance of the warm weight.</p><p>Mickey standing at the foot of the bed, watching him for a second, then walking away.</p><p>Finally, the rustling as the covers of the other bed are pulled back and the squeak of the mattress as Mickey climbs in.</p><p>Ian rolls over onto his other side, facing away from what is now apparently Mickey’s bed, and wills himself to go back to sleep.</p><p>---<br/>
---</p><p>The next morning, Mickey wakes before Ian. By the time Ian’s sitting up in bed, stretching and yawning, Mickey’s stepping out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist, the long length of it making it look like Mickey’s legs are two inches long.</p><p>Ian chuckles breathily, sleepy eyes turning to crinkles, and Mickey warily eyes him.</p><p>“What you laughin’ at?”</p><p>“Nothing.” Ian yawns and stretches back out in bed, pulling the covers up over his head so he can smile in peace. He feels something land on him.</p><p>“Get up, man, if you want pancakes.”</p><p>Ian hums. “Did you order room service?” He pulls down the covers and sees Mickey’d thrown his towel at him and is now over by the mirror, applying deodorant while wearing just a pair of royal blue boxer briefs with a thick white waistband.</p><p>“Uhh, thought we’d hit the diner down the street. Y’know, with Mo. We go there sometimes.”</p><p>Ian’s belly twists. They’re going to eat breakfast in <i>public</i>? When they have access to a full, convenient room service menu?</p><p>“Cool,” he says, trying to play it off as nonchalant, and climbs out of bed. “Do I have time for a shower?”</p><p>“Knock yourself out.”</p><p>Ian brings his backpack into the bathroom with him so he can take his meds, then quickly showers, runs a towel through his hair, and pulls on gray jeans and a black waffle-knit sweater.</p><p>This time, he’d thought to bring more than just a few wrinkled articles of clothing, and he spritzes on some of Lip’s cologne and brushes his teeth.</p><p>When he exits the bathroom, carrying his backpack with one hand and a rolled pair of socks with the other, he spies Mickey back on his laptop, sitting against the headboard of his bed.</p><p>He looks so fucking good. </p><p>He’s got on a <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/30b289644789b2d336b1dbd975a741af/ce647f6b99e6b287-93/s500x750/f33a143246679e8ee2a3b555d88f822a27d3ea34.jpg">black sweatshirt with multi-colored paint splatter on it</a>, dark-wash skinnies with rips in the knees, and combat boots that look like they’re a thousand years old, the leather worn and scuffed in places and the laces frayed.</p><p>His hair is shower-damp and just swept back to dry all floppy up top, and he’s got in his black earrings.</p><p>Mickey looks up at him and then quickly back down, like he’s afraid to be caught staring. Ian bites his lip.</p><p>“C’mere,” Mickey says, beckoning him with a head-nod.</p><p>Ian walks over and climbs up on the bed with him, and Mickey scoots closer, setting the laptop in Ian’s lap. He’s got a Gmail account pulled up, the inbox filled with 724 unread messages. About six of them have been opened.</p><p>Mickey clicks the third one down the list and asks, “Which?”</p><p>When the email opens, Mickey scrolls down to the attachments and clicks the linked Google Drive video. It’s a hand-drawn, fan-made animation to “I Believe in a Thing Called Love.” </p><p>They watch it for less than a minute, then Mickey backs out and opens up another email with an attached video, this time a teenage girl with her hair midway down her back playing electric guitar to the song.</p><p>After thirty seconds, Mickey opens up one more: a couple playing banjos and singing a slower, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ooeF-eQ9u_w">acoustic version</a> of the song.</p><p>“This one,” Ian comments, pointing at the screen. “It’s like, <i>romantic</i> or something.”</p><p>Mickey scoffs. “Or something.”</p><p>“C’mon, Mick. It’s Valentine’s Day.”</p><p>Just saying it then reminds him that yeah, shit, it actually is. He’s sitting on a bed in a hotel with a guy on fucking Valentine’s Day. </p><p>He looks at Mickey, who rolls his eyes at him.</p><p>It’s then that he realizes just how close they’re sitting--close enough for Mickey to be controlling the laptop that’s in Ian’s lap. Their thighs are flush together, and every time Mickey moves, the sleeve of his sweatshirt brushes against him.</p><p>They’re close enough that Ian can smell the toothpaste on his breath.</p><p>“Whatever,” Mickey says, taking back the computer and tapping <i>reply</i> on the email.</p><p>
  <i>Thanks, check out the livestream tonight to see it.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>-MM</i>
</p><p>Ian laughs at how straightforward and emotionless it is.</p><p>Mickey eyes him. “What?”</p><p>“Nothing.”</p><p>“<i>What</i>?”</p><p>Ian shakes his head. “You’re just...you.”</p><p>“What’s that s’posed to mean?”</p><p>“Nothing.” He gives Mickey a little shove and climbs off the bed to grab his shoes.</p><p>---</p><p>They meet Mo in the lobby at 11. <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/949350696e2d0733b5284e962565ac26/e7bebf7890a7bb60-b7/s1280x1920/e3c9681f8257cce22f7e1ecde4c9fd3b83d2ff91.jpg">She’s got her hair pulled back and has on a bright yellow waffle-knit sweater</a> in an almost awkwardly similar style to Ian’s.</p><p>“Seems we’re twinning today,” she greets with a bright smile, elbowing him before moving to put on her coat. </p><p>She turns toward Mickey, who’s pulling on a black beanie. “Where’s your waffle-knit, Mister?”</p><p>Mickey flips her off and starts heading toward the entrance, and Ian follows with a smile.</p><p>The diner’s just a couple blocks down, and it reminds Ian of Patsy’s--just cleaner and only half the size, made up of simply a bar up front, four booths, and three two-person tables. There’s hardly anyone there, which Ian assumes is likely the appeal, the only patrons being some older men reading newspapers and drinking coffee at the bar and a young family at one of the booths.</p><p>Their waitress’s name is Tiana, and she seats them in the back corner. Ian hangs back and lets Mickey and Mo into the booth first, not wanting to be presumptuous and do something awkward as shit like slide in beside Mickey, which, he comes to realize, probably would’ve been the wrong move.</p><p>Mickey gets in first, then Mo climbs in after him. As Ian slides into the empty seat across from the two of them, he wonders if Mo did that so he could sit across from Mickey or so no one would mistake the two of them for being a couple.</p><p>He picks up his menu and studies it, sucking his bottom lip. Thinking.</p><p>The service is fast with the coffee and Ian’s orange juice. After they’ve ordered their brunch--pancake plates for Ian and Mickey and a Monte Cristo for Mo--Mo apparently sets in with her questioning.</p><p>“And how was our evening?” she asks knowingly, eyes flitting between Ian and Mickey.</p><p>Mickey’s working away at making a creamer pyramid, so Ian answers, mumbling, “Uhhh, good.”</p><p>Mo smiles and gets her elbow on the table, resting her cheek against her palm. “So tell me about your new job, Ian?”</p><p>She jumps and looks quickly to Mickey, and though he hadn’t caught it exactly, Ian gets the distinct impression that Mickey’s just kicked her under the table.</p><p>“It’s fun,” he says, picking up his glass of OJ to take a sip. “I wait and bartend over at Shenanigan’s off Michigan. We just opened last week.”</p><p>“He’s their mascot,” Mickey adds, cutting Ian the briefest and tiniest of smiles that disappears so quickly he’s not even sure if he really saw it. “He’s literally Paddy Shenanigan.”</p><p>Ian balls up his straw wrapper and tosses it at his head. “Fuck you.”</p><p>Mickey kicks him under the table in retaliation, and Ian stretches his leg out teasingly, resting his foot on his lap until Mickey shoves it away.</p><p>“No, but it’s pretty fun,” Ian reiterates to Mo after straightening in his seat, sending Mickey a dirty look. “You should come in next time you’re in town. It’s kinda corny during the day, but they get bands and shit in at night, and it’s a buncha drunk people singing drinking songs.”</p><p>Mo hums and takes a sip of her coffee. “My childhood in a nutshell.”</p><p>Ian grins at her. It’s only then that he realizes that Mickey must have told her that Ian had gotten a new job, implying they’ve talked about him. He bites his lip and cuts his eyes to Mickey, who’s back to working on his creamer pyramid.</p><p>They shift the subject of the conversation to the livestream that day, and then Mo gets on her phone and shows Mickey video of “Charlotte,” whoever that is. Mickey takes her phone from her without asking and taps a button on the screen, causing Mo to punch him in the arm and then try to take it back.</p><p>“Stop it!” she complains, and Mickey giggles like a little kid, tapping the screen again. “You’ll spoil her!”</p><p>“Who’s Charlotte?” Ian asks, completely lost but very much enjoying the fight.</p><p>Mickey holds out her phone so Ian can see. It’s a pet monitoring app with security footage of a living room, a fat gray cat scrambling around on the floor. Beneath the screen video, clearly what Mickey had been tapping repeatedly, is a button for treat dispensal, the app apparently somehow connected to a camera and feeding system all the way in LA.</p><p>Mo uses that opportunity--when the phone’s exposed and not clutched to Mickey’s chest--to snatch it back.</p><p>“Mickey’s turning her into a terror. She was the loveliest cat until he started coming ‘round, and now she’s rude and ungrateful.”</p><p>“She loves me,” Mickey interjects, and the expression on his face makes Ian want to kiss the hell out of him. He’s all smirky, eyes shining and cheeks pink. Fucking cute.</p><p>Ian takes a deep breath to settle the swooping feeling in his gut.</p><p>Mickey and Mo are arguing again when the food comes--mostly Mickey doing the arguing and Mo being perfectly reasonable. </p><p>They do seem a lot like brother and sister, this playfulness and comfort to their relationship that reminds Ian of the way he is with Carl. But then every now and again there’ll be a glimpse of Mo’s care--a gentle, whispered word as she shows him something on her phone, as she asks if the pancakes are going to give him a stomachache during the livestream later--that’s more reminiscent of Fiona and Liam.</p><p>While the three of them eat, they talk casually. Ian asks Mo about where she’s from, and she tells him her story of growing up in Birmingham, moving to London for <i>uni</i>, then moving to Los Angeles with a girl when she was twenty-four. They’d broken up not six months after the move, but Mo had landed a great job at a talent agency and stayed on, eventually moving out of the house she rented with her ex and into a tiny little <i>flatshare</i> in Glendale.</p><p>Even though he’s likely heard the story a thousand times before, Mickey listens intently, eating his pancakes absolutely drowning in syrup.</p><p>Apparently, she and Mickey live in a place called <i>Los Feliz</i> now, Mo in an apartment and Mickey in a house he’d bought in 2020.</p><p><i>They’re genuinely close</i>, Ian thinks, finishing up his pancakes and wondering, not for the first time, just how much Mickey talks about him with her.</p><p>When they’re done eating, Mo pays for their meal, declaring to Mickey that it’s <i>her turn</i>, and the three of them head out onto the sidewalk.</p><p>It’s shaping up to be a beautiful day, the air cold but in a way that feels clean and crisp and the sky an alarming shade of blue. The sun’s warm and bright, and Mo taps him on the shoulder and says, “Look at that beautiful hair.”</p><p>Ian knows it gets coppery and bright in the sun, and he smiles at the compliment, ducking his head.</p><p>Mickey pokes his side, and Ian’s stomach goes wobbly.</p><p>“Gonna head back.” Mickey nods toward the way of the hotel, and Mo hums and turns to Ian.</p><p>“Do you want to go wait around in a hotel room with Mr. Boring, or would you like to see the city with me?”</p><p>Ian smiles at her and shrugs. What the hell.</p><p>They leave Mickey to saunter off in the opposite direction and then walk together down the street, occasionally stepping into shops and talking about random things of little consequence.</p><p>Ian isn’t that familiar with this area, the Gold Coast district being just about as opposite Back of the Yards as you can get. Together, the two of them stroll through the historic area, checking out the mansions and TV homes that Mo takes pictures of with her phone.</p><p>“Hop in,” she motions toward Ian when they stop in front of the <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/a74fbc3e2e14cdb3f95d833dcfbab25c/1af3b654a63e49b6-c5/s1280x1920/95b2a8647637e3294701a78b95ab26f5c2850442.jpg">Original Playboy Mansion</a>.</p><p>He feels awkward about it, but he gets in the picture, smiling at first and then sticking out his tongue. Mo grins and, like fucking Mandy, clearly texts it to Mickey.</p><p>“So what’s he doing?” Ian asks, shoving his hands in the pockets of his coat as the two of them pick back up their walk.</p><p>“He’s very particular on days when he’s got something on. Probably working on his playlist or getting his wardrobe together.”</p><p>“<i>Really</i>?”</p><p>“Yeah.” Mo shrugs. “He’s quite laidback when he’s ‘off,’ but everything’s got to be perfect when he’s doing his concerts or livestreams. At least before it begins.” She tilts her head toward Ian and smiles. “I knew that if you stayed with him today, you’d just be standing around like a spare prick at a wedding.”</p><p>Ian grins at the expression. “Thanks, I guess,” he says, narrowing his eyes at her.</p><p>They wander around for an hour more, Mo announcing at the end of it that according to her Fitbit, she’s gotten in all her exercise for the day and therefore doesn’t get to feel bad about her Ben and Jerry’s threesome later that night.</p><p>“Single on Valentine’s Day,” she comments as the two of them head toward a Starbucks.</p><p>Ian nods, not really sure what to say to that. He could say <i>me too</i>, but something about that feels weird. </p><p>Technically, he’s single. Even <i>generally</i>, he’s single. But he’s also pretty likely going to be having sex with Mo’s client-slash-best friend that night, so he figures he should just smile and nod and dig around in his pocket for his wallet.</p><p>They order overpriced coffees at Starbucks, and Ian pays because he actually can for once with the twelve bucks and some change he has on him.</p><p>Afterward, they head over to Oak Street Beach and sit together on a bench, sipping their drinks and looking out at the vastness of Lake Michigan.</p><p>Ian can count on one hand the number of times he’s been here. As a kid, they’d done the occasional beach day, but it was a rare occurrence and only after a special occasion, their summer days typically spent running a daycare out of their house and splashing around in a grimy swimming pool in their backyard that they filled with a waterhose.</p><p>He’s gets a little lost in his head for a moment and is therefore almost startled into a jump when Mo asks, “So what’s your story, Ian?”</p><p>Ian turns to her, brows lowered. “Uhh.” He shrugs. “I dunno. Don’t really have one, I guess.”</p><p>Not one that he wants to tell anybody, anyway. Fuck. He’s got a hell of a story if he wanted to be honest. </p><p>He doesn’t want to be honest.</p><p>“I’m pretty boring,” he adds, taking a sip of his mocha-something that tastes like sugary piss.</p><p>Mo hums and adjusts herself on the bench, turning half-sideways so she can look at him. For a moment, it seems like she’s waiting--maybe for Ian to tell the truth, maybe for something else.</p><p>Finally, she narrows her eyes and then says, “I’ve known Mickey for three years. He’s a great person, and I love him like a baby brother.” She pauses. Takes a sip of her own mocha-something that she’d ordered in some sort of special healthy way that Ian hadn’t bothered with. </p><p>“But Mickey doesn’t like many people. They like <i>him</i>, but I can count on one hand the number of people he texts for non-business purposes. I can’t figure you out.”</p><p>Ian’s stomach lurches, and he suddenly feels self-conscious. The tips of his ears burn. He drinks his coffee to disguise his awkwardness.</p><p>“Uh, I dunno,” he says with a little shrug, not meeting Mo’s eyes. “He doesn’t really text me that much.”</p><p>She eyes him as if suspicious of his answer, and Ian glances her way long enough to catch a slight upturn of the corner of her mouth.</p><p>He’s expecting another hard-hitting question next--something that’s going to make him feel even weirder than he already does. Instead, Mo smiles at him and says, “Sorry about the room.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“The double room. Valentine’s weekend, you know.”</p><p>Ian feels a blush creep up his cheeks. He’s embarrassed, and he doesn’t know why. Never in his life has he been shy about sex--having it or talking about it. You don’t grow up a Gallagher and have any sort of reservations about that shit.</p><p>He tries to steel himself. Tries to turn toward Mo with a more confident expression. Says, “It’s cool.”</p><p>“We’ve got an arrangement with the hotel about Mickey’s little smoking problem, and if it weren’t for that small detail, I’d have got you two something better at another location entirely.”</p><p>Ian smirks because yeah, okay, that makes sense. Mo smirks back.</p><p>“So,” she says, voice light. “What’s he like?”</p><p>He’d been about to take a sip of his coffee as she asked the question, but he immediately pulls it away from his lips. </p><p>“What?”</p><p>Mo elbows him playfully. “I bet he’s all grumpy afterwards. Or is he sweet? Probably serenades you, right?”</p><p>“Exactly.” Ian snorts, and Mo breaks into a laugh that sounds like bells.</p><p>They chuckle intermittently after that, sipping their coffees. He gets why Mickey’s friends with her--why he trusts her and hangs out with her. Why they apparently live near each other in a place called <i>Los Feliz</i>. </p><p>Ian knows enough Spanish from high school to know <i>feliz</i> means <i>happy</i>.</p><p>Idly, he wonders if it’s warm there in February.</p><p>It’s getting almost too cold to be where they are now, the breeze from the lake whipping across their faces and turning their cheeks and noses pink.</p><p>“Anyway,” Mo says, turning to look at Ian seriously. “Just a forewarning: I work in show business. I know how to make a story disappear. I also grew up city-center, so I know how to knife a guy. Got connections with a bloke or two who can hide a body.” She winks. “And remember: it’s LA. That’s <i>heads in the freezer</i> shit.”</p><p>“Got it,” Ian laughs, absolutely beaming at the fact that he’s being given the shovel talk.</p><p>Mo stands and tosses her empty Starbucks cup in the trash by the bench. “Don’t cross me,” she warns, voice wavery from holding back her own laugh.</p><p>Ian stands after her and lets all the happiness out in his own voice. “Wouldn’t dare, Mo.”</p><p>---<br/>
---</p><p>When they get back to the hotel, it’s almost four, and there’s still a couple hours before they need to leave.</p><p>In the room, Ian finds Mickey sitting on the bed in his ripped jeans and combat boots but shirtless, drinking a beer.</p><p>He’s playing <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sOks2HArHf0">Lorde</a> on his bluetooth speaker and tapping around on his phone.</p><p>“Having fun?” Ian asks in greeting, shutting and locking the door behind him. </p><p>Mickey swipes around on his phone for a second and then holds it up, revealing the picture of Ian standing outside the Playboy Mansion. “Looks like <i>you</i> had fun.”</p><p>“Mo’s great.”</p><p>“Sometimes.”</p><p>Ian smiles at the little twitch of Mickey’s lips.</p><p>“Did she tell you lies about me?” Mickey asks, setting down his phone and stretching his arms up above his head like he’s just woken after napping, his ribs visible with it and making his misshapen side super apparent for a moment.</p><p>Ian sits down on the bed near Mickey’s feet. “She asked me what you’re like in the sack.”</p><p>“She did what?”</p><p>“Yup.” Ian shrugs, biting back a smile. “I just told her the truth. How you’re all soft. Whispering sweet nothings in my ear.”</p><p>Mickey kicks at him. “Gross. What the fuck?”</p><p>“Nah.” Ian chuckles. “She was just joking, but she sorta did ask me.”</p><p>“Weird ass motherfucker.”</p><p>“She loves you.”</p><p>“Christ.” Mickey downs the rest of his beer, crushes the can in his fist, and then launches it at the trashcan halfway across the room. He misses.</p><p>“So what have you been doing?” Ian asks, motioning toward the open laptop on the pillow to Mickey’s right. </p><p>Mickey yawns, and Ian’s honestly starting to believe that the answer to that question is <i>napping</i>.</p><p>“Gettin’ my shit together. Scheduling social media posts. Makin’ sure my stuff works.”</p><p>“Picking out your outfit?”</p><p>Mickey flips him off. “Maybe.”</p><p>Ian likes him so much. He grins and falls backward on the bed, Mickey’s boots snug up against his arm.</p><p>They hang out in the room for about two hours. During the first hour, Ian suggests fucking, but Mickey doesn’t really want to, not quite blowing Ian off but simply not getting enthusiastic enough when Ian starts palming his dick through his jeans. </p><p>He lies back against the headboard and seems to <i>let</i> Ian do it rather than having any desire to actively participate, and after a couple minutes, Ian gives him an affectionate pat on the thigh and pulls away.</p><p>“Sorry,” he says, sitting up. “You’re not into it right now.”</p><p>Mickey doesn’t protest, and Ian shrugs and gets up to grab them drinks from the fridge.</p><p>It’s a little amazing to him how <i>nervous</i> Mickey is. Mo was right about him being particular. He must check something on his laptop ten times, and he spends the better part of the second hour posting to his social media accounts and promoting the livestream that night.</p><p>Ian guesses he’d always assumed Mickey just posted stuff online without a second thought--recorded his videos and uploaded them to YouTube, did livestreams, replied to comments, all of it as unmethodical as taking a shit. Now he realizes that this is Mickey at work. The gaming shit is his <i>job</i>.</p><p>Based on the way Mo had talked about it earlier, Ian figures this is a well-documented <i>thing</i>, Mickey stressing for a few hours before an event.</p><p>He lets him do it. They talk about random stuff for a bit, then watch an episode of <i>Seinfeld</i>.</p><p>With about thirty minutes until they need to leave, Mickey climbs off the bed and heads to the wardrobe, where he’s got a shirt hanging up. He pulls it on, and Ian bites his lip and feels a bit like he’s watching Big Bird get into his suit.</p><p>For the Valentine’s livestream, he’s wearing <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/25ce0435cb3e1becda63c324f41f9c31/1c47eb4baa07ea0f-b6/s500x750/759c0a40f4ba88804765d6cbc0b58b6779b66004.jpg">a navy button-down with tiny flowers all over it in various shades of red and pink</a>. </p><p>Ian watches as Mickey buttons it up in the mirror and then heads to the bathroom. He leaves the door open, and Ian can see him comb and style his hair with some sort of expensive gel. He gets a face wipe like Debbie and Fiona use and washes his face, then puts on chapstick.</p><p>“Do I need to like, style my hair and shit?” Ian asks, getting up and moving over to the mirror, where he proceeds to comb his fingers through. He’s about a month overdue for a haircut.</p><p>Mickey doesn’t say anything. Ian assumes he’s chosen to ignore him. But then, just as he’s about to go sit back down on the bed, Mickey comes out of the bathroom.</p><p>“Bend down.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“Would you just do it?”</p><p>Ian huffs and bends down, and Mickey applies some gel to his hair, swooping the flyaway bits into something resembling a purposeful style and grumbling unintelligibly all the while.</p><p>Ian’s so flabbergasted that he remains entirely silent the whole time, standing stock still with his heart in his throat and blood rushing in his ears.</p><p>When he’s done, Mickey shoves him as if trying to <i>bro</i> his way out of it and then returns to the bathroom like nothing ever happened.</p><p>---</p><p>“You look sharp,” Mo comments down in the lobby, giving Ian a look.</p><p>He doesn’t, really. He’s dressed exactly the same as he was earlier, only now his hair’s a bit side-swept and tame. Ian knows that’s what she means, and he also knows <i>she</i> knows Mickey has something to do with it.</p><p>He considers flipping her off but, worried they aren’t yet on that level, refrains. Instead, he shrugs at her and follows Mickey out the hotel doors to their waiting Uber.</p><p>---</p><p>SneakAttack HQ is basically a small, converted warehouse on S. Halsted near Pilsen. It doesn’t look like much from the outside, the brick white-worn and cracked with an artfully-rusted, industrial-style sign mounted above the door. Inside, however, is a different story.</p><p>It’s basically one large room separated by glass half-walls, everything sleek and modern--stylish in an architectural digest way, in a way that suggests, <i>We’re a successful company</i>. There are cubicles, gaming stations, and a series of boxy, glass offices full of conference tables and TVs. Along the waiting room wall is a row of PS5s resting on shelves beneath mounted plasma screens, gaming chairs in front of each one.</p><p>Mickey looks around the room like he’s nowhere special, and Ian guesses that to him, that’s exactly where he is. Ian, however, feels completely out of his league.</p><p>He glances back down at his dusty shoes. He isn’t at all underdressed, the game developers milling around looking like wannabe Urban Outfitters models and Mo, herself, dressed much the same as she had been that morning, only having exchanged her jeans and Converse for a pair of black cords and her zip-up sneakers. So it isn’t the clothing thing. Ian looks fine. He’s even got his hair styled.</p><p>And he knows that from the outside, he probably doesn’t look much different from Mo or Mickey or anybody, really. He just can’t shake the feeling that he's an imposter, that he doesn’t belong. He’s standing amongst thousands of dollars worth of gaming equipment, has just left a pricey Gold Coast hotel, and yet his belly and his heart feels coated in the same Southside dust and grime that’s along the rubber of his shoes.</p><p>Ethan--the bearded hipster dude Ian had met at the cooperative gameplay session--meets them at the front desk. He’s wearing a MICK MILK T-shirt--the 90s style one like Mickey’d had on that night in the penthouse when they’d first fucked--and Ian can’t help but find it extremely dorky in a way that makes him smile.</p><p>After greeting them, his attitude over-the-top complimentary and kiss-ass, he leads the three of them to the back of the building, through a set of double doors, and into one of the only fully-enclosed rooms Ian can see that isn’t surrounded by glass.</p><p>It’s a small studio, the room primarily filled with a large, L-shaped desk on which is a computer with three TV-sized monitors, a gaming system, mounted microphone, and cords Ian assumes are meant to be for Mickey’s MacBook, which he’s brought with him in a messenger bag.</p><p>On the other side of the L-shaped desk is another small desk with a double-monitored computer and what looks like some sort of soundboard. Against the far wall, beneath a row of sound-proofing panels, is a bright pink velvet couch with black pillows.</p><p>Another bearded guy--this one a blond named Brock--comes in to help Mickey get set up, and Ethan leaves with Mo, presumably to do something business-related. Ian, feeling out of place, sits down on the pink couch and gets comfortable.</p><p>Over the next twenty minutes, game developers file in and out of the room. A young but balding man in a black and green SneakAttack T-shirt and Ray-Ban eyeglasses comes in and introduces himself as Charlie, the head writer of <i>Dust to Dust</i>. He’s apparently going to be the one sitting in on the livestream, mic’d up and with a camera on him.</p><p>When he introduces himself to Mickey, he asks, “And who’d you bring with you?” nodding toward Ian.</p><p>Mickey looks distracted for a moment but quickly says, “Uhh, it’s my friend, Ian.”</p><p><i>Obviously</i> he was going to say that, but Ian can’t help but feel glad in his heart to hear it. <i>My friend, Ian.</i></p><p>Ethan had only vaguely recognized him when Ian’d told him in the lobby that they’d met before. He hadn’t asked any questions about how the contest winner had ended up hanging out with Mickey on Valentine’s Day, ever the professional, but he knew he was, at least in some capacity, a fan.</p><p>That Mickey lets Charlie know Ian as his friend makes his belly twist.</p><p>---</p><p>It takes what feels like a month for Mickey to get set up. There’s a technical issue with the sound, and a tech comes in and works on it. When they’re done, Mickey’s got his playlist up and running, testing everything out, and Ian watches from the large TV on the wall as the cameras are adjusted, as is the computer feed and game.</p><p>Mo comes back in with Ethan just before the stream is set to start. Ethan brings Mickey a bowl with two waters, a bag of chips, some M&amp;Ms, and a Pipeline Punch Monster, then leaves again to retrieve more snacks for Ian and Mo.</p><p>Ten minutes later finds Ian munching Hot Wings flavored Ruffles as the lights are cut and the neon display behind Mickey is illuminated, casting the room in a pink-purple glow. For the past several minutes, Mickey’s had his playlist going, and when “Lover” comes on, the song emanating from the localized speakers just behind Ian and Mo’s heads, Ian gives him a wry grin.</p><p>“Fuck off,” Mickey murmurs, not even looking at him, and Ian snickers.</p><p>The closer it gets to the beginning of the stream, the ten-minute countdown reaching two minutes, then one, the more visibly nervous Mickey becomes. Ian watches as he keeps blowing out breath after breath, keeps drumming his fingers against the desk and taps the toe of his combat boot against the concrete floor, making a rhythmic slapping noise each time.</p><p>He takes a drink of water, swishes it around in his mouth, then swallows.</p><p>And when the timer reaches zero, the MICK MILK intro video beginning--complete with the very beginning of “Bullet With Butterfly Wings”--Mickey runs his hand over his face, licks his lips, and starts up the video feed.</p><p>“Waaaassup,” he intones in that same, bored voice that seems different in person, like the nervous first word of someone with stage fright. </p><p>Mickey takes one more deep, steadying breath and then, as if all the nerves have suddenly left his body, settles into the character of MICK MILK. His body language changes, going from loose to stiff and controlled. He looks casual as fuck as he unscrews the cap on his water bottle and takes a sip, reading the chat.</p><p>“‘ey,” he greets again, squinting at something and then smiling. “Thanks, JavaBeast. Yeah. Uh, hey to Luxie, hey to David.” Mickey scrolls and calls out his greetings for the next couple minutes, then sits back and sips at his water, waiting for the chat to settle and presumably for more people to tune in.</p><p>After several minutes, he clears his throat casually and says, “So we’re streaming live out of SneakAttack HQ right now. I’m here with Charlie Hemming, one of the head writers for <i>Dust to Dust</i>.”</p><p>Charlie turns on his camera, and Mickey does something on his computer so that he appears in a second box in the opposite corner of the game screen. </p><p>“Hello everyone,” Charlie greets. “Hope you’re all doing great tonight.”</p><p>For the next several minutes, Charlie and Mickey have a back-and-forth exchange about the game, discussing what players can expect from it, why it’s different from anything SneakAttack has produced before.</p><p>While they’re talking, Mo taps Ian on the shoulder, and he turns to find her holding her phone out in selfie mode. Surprised, Ian takes a minute to jump into action, but eventually, he snaps out of it and leans in, smiling.</p><p>She takes a picture of the two of them, then flips the camera and takes a picture of Mickey, who looks bored out of his mind as he talks to Charlie. The funny thing about it is that Ian genuinely doesn’t know if it’s an act or not. He smiles anyway, sinking back into the sofa cushions to watch the show.</p><p>---</p><p>The game is just about the scariest one Ian thinks he’s ever seen Mickey play. Story-wise, the premise is that the player is an unknown, modern-day person who begins the game by walking through a door into the main hall of a sprawling, Victorian-era mansion. The player must explore the mansion while being haunted by four separate ghosts--one per chapter--and the only way to beat each chapter is to evade the ghost, which is stalking you in the darkness, for long enough to collect all the clues in order to piece together the story behind the person’s tortured life and death.</p><p>Each chapter is about four hours long, and Mickey’s playing just the first tonight and will be completing the game, he mentions, as a Let’s Play series on his channel beginning the second week in March, when the game is officially released.</p><p>The thing about the game is that the jump scares are few and far-between, something Mickey notes is one thing the developers have gotten right. When they do happen, they’re jarring in both a quick-scare way and in a way that seems to come at your belly and your fucking soul. </p><p>[*] About half an hour in, just as the player has gotten comfortable and complacent, the main character examines a mirror. And while Ian is thinking, body braced, that there will be a jump-scare in the mirror reflection, nothing happens. </p><p>Instead, when the player pulls back and turns away to face the room, there’s a dead girl standing there with half her face chewed off like her corpse has been eaten by wild animals.</p><p>Ian jumps on the couch, and Mo snickers at him quietly, reaching over with her elbow to give him a bump.</p><p>Chapter One’s ghost is the creepy half-faced girl, and after that first encounter, her sightings become more numerous--not always attached to a jump-scare but often enough to keep Ian on his toes. He crosses his arms over his chest and watches, rapt, as Mickey’s character walks into a dark room and turns to flip on the light. As the character’s hand comes out, a child’s hand pops in from off-screen and switches the light back off. [*]</p><p>Mickey laughs at that and pauses the game, taking a minute to read the chat. “These are honestly like, some of the best jump-scares I’ve seen in a game.” He bites his lip. Squints to read the second screen.</p><p>“Did I get jump-scared? <i>No</i>, I didn’t get jump-scared. Nice try.” He scoffs, turns back to the main screen, and unpauses the game.</p><p>After another half hour, Charlie signals to Mickey that he’s about half-way through the chapter, indicating it’s time for a break.</p><p>After the “I Believe in a Thing Called Love” performance by Mickey’s apparently banjo-playing viewers, he tells everyone to go get some food, then starts up a ten-minute break countdown screen and “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Aqc3VTpz9HQ">You Give Love A Bad Name</a>,” which he must have added to the playlist while he was working the night before.</p><p>“Romantic,” Ian comments as Mickey gets up to go to the bathroom. There’s no verbal response to that, but Mickey kicks his shoe as he passes by him.</p><p>When he returns a couple minutes later, there are still six minutes left on the countdown. Mickey sits back in his chair and yawns.</p><p>“So how does this work?” Ian asks, waving toward the computer.</p><p>Mickey raises his eyebrows and motions for him to come over, pulling out an empty chair on the other end of the desk. Ian stands and closes the seven-foot gap between them, having a seat in the chair.</p><p>And Ian’s expecting Mickey to be vague and uninterested, but instead, he seems almost excited to show off what he knows. He clicks around on his computer, showing Ian the controls, then points out buttons and knobs he uses to adjust game sound, mic sound.</p><p>While he’s at the computer, Ian reads the chat. People are talking about the game. Mickey’s shirt. Somebody’s started typing out made up lyrics to a Single On Valentine’s Day song, and members of the chat are adding rhyming lines, a lot of them sexual and a lot of them hilarious.</p><p>Ian points it out and Mickey snickers.</p><p>“Christ,” he whispers, fondness seeping into his voice. “Fuckin’ lunatics.”</p><p>It’s soft in a way that tells Ian that Mickey enjoys having the <i>fuckin’ lunatics</i>, and it makes him smile to think of Mickey having a fanbase--people who like him.</p><p>He remembers what Mo told him on the bench earlier in the day: <i>They like him, but Mickey doesn’t like many people.</i> He then remembers Mickey saying, <i>My friend, Ian</i>, and his heart swells with pride over the fact that Mickey Milkovich, MICK MILK here at SneakAttack, doing a livestream he’s probably getting paid a couple thousand dollars for, is his <i>friend</i>. That he <i>likes him</i>.</p><p>He takes a deep breath.</p><p>The countdown ends, and along with it, “Mint Car.” Ian goes to stand, to move back to the couch where Mo’s sitting and texting, when Mickey taps the desk beside him.</p><p>“Hey,” he says, and Ian looks back at him, brows raised.</p><p>“Uh, if you want, you can sit here.” He gives the rolling gamer chair Ian had just vacated a shove, moving it out of range of the camera. “If you wanted to see how this shit works or whatever.”</p><p>Ian grins wide for an immediate second before biting it back in an attempt to play it at least <i>a little bit</i> cool.</p><p>“Yeah,” he says, quickly going over to the couch to grab his water and then returning. “Cool. Thanks.”</p><p>He gets settled into the chair and watches up-close and personal as Mickey starts back up the livestream.</p><p>---</p><p>The second half of the chapter is when most of the shit goes down, the fear level upped to an eleven and every move becoming high-stakes.</p><p>[*] The ghost, a little girl named Alice, becomes a constant, looming presence whenever the player is in dark areas of the mansion. She appears as a shadow on the wall, as a figure huddled in the corner of the room. At one point, while walking down a pitch-black hallway, the player must sprint from one end to the other in order to escape her clutches.</p><p>Though the player never sees Alice behind them, the sound of her walking and breathing is so realistically loud that it gives Ian chills just to hear it--makes anxiety creep up within him even though he’s not even the one playing.</p><p>At one point, Mickey enters what turns out to be Alice’s former bedroom. He walks the character over toward the dresser to examine a flashing clue there, and just as he reaches out to grab the clue, Alice’s ghost spider-crawls out from under the bed. [*]</p><p>Ian jumps so badly that the chair makes a distractingly loud noise, his elbows slamming back against the armrests and heart feeling like it’s come up into his mouth.</p><p>There’s a smattering of laughter--Charlie, Mo, and Ethan, who’s come back into the room after the break. And to his surprise, Mickey’s paused the game and is looking at him, mouth twisted in what would absolutely be a smile if he weren’t trying to maintain his composure.</p><p>Ian flips him off, and Mickey allows himself a split-second smile before turning back to the game as if nothing happened and unpausing it. </p><p>After a minute, his eyes wander to the chat, where people are clearly commenting on Mickey staring at something. The font’s too tiny for Ian to read from where he’s sitting, but he sees the steady movement of people, the chat having come to life after lying dormant over the past several minutes.</p><p>Mickey pauses the game again, lips twisting up once more, and rubs at his brow. He squints at the chat and then works his mouth like he’s trying out various words in his head before settling on the one he likes best.</p><p>What he ends up with is, “What was I starin’ at?” He shrugs, nonchalant. Pauses as if considering. And then, in a move that surprises Ian so much he doesn’t even know how to react, looks straight at him and says, “<i>Some guy</i> just shit his pants.”</p><p>Mickey grins at him again, then sniffs, schools his expression, and turns back to the game.</p><p>He unpauses it and doesn’t comment any further, but Ian can see the chat going wild. He wonders what it says. Wonders what all the viewers are thinking about <i>some guy</i> who’s sitting just off-camera, watching Mickey play.</p><p>He fidgets nervously and tries to get comfortable again, but he soon realizes he shouldn’t even try. He’s jump-scared again, this one minor but enough to make him feel the need to cough to cover it up, and Mickey looks at him for a second and rolls his eyes because really, okay, that one was bullshit. Not even worth the jump.</p><p>Ian discovers quite quickly that he’s apparently jumpy with video games. He isn’t like this with movies, the scares usually having to be pretty good to get to him, but something about the personal feel of games and the first-person point of view of this one in particular has just about made him lose his ability to remain calm in any sense of the word.</p><p>He jumps again at a moderately good jump-scare, and Mickey rolls his head against the back of the gaming chair to look at him. “<i>Really</i>?” he asks, and Ian’s as embarrassed as he is amazed that Mickey’s apparently decided not to give a shit about viewers knowing he’s talking to somebody.</p><p>And then it happens.</p><p>Charlie flips on his camera and mic, and just to make a comment, says, “Maybe Ian can be our representation of the average gamer’s reaction to <i>Dust to Dust</i>. These jump-scares ain’t gettin’ to MICK MILK.”</p><p>He’s said his name.</p><p>Not that everybody--or really <i>most</i> people--in the chat know who he is, but there’s enough superfans aware of his existence that the chat has to contain at least a few. He watches the chat start to move quickly, sees emojis pop up. He bites his lip.</p><p>[*] Mickey seemingly ignores Charlie <i>and</i> the chat, unpausing the game and going back to what amounts to a chase sequence of spider-like Alice crawling after the player, who must scurry around the downstairs of the mansion to certain safety checkpoints. </p><p>It’s a hard sequence, Mickey failing it twice in a row. His brow is creased, and he bites his lip, tries again, and is caught once more by Alice, who flattens his body against the floor and melts into him. [*]</p><p>Ian glances at Mickey’s face. He seems distracted. The chat’s still moving.</p><p>And then, all at once, as if having committed himself to going for it, Mickey pauses the game, looks to Ian, and says, “C’mere.”</p><p>Ian points to himself. “Me?”</p><p>“No, the annoying ginger behind you. Get over here.”</p><p>Ian turns to Mo as if asking permission. She’s got her brows raised--as surprised as he is--but shrugs at him. </p><p>After taking a deep breath, Ian rolls his chair right up next to Mickey’s.</p><p>It’s fucking bizarre. He’s fully on camera, the ring light attached to the top of the computer making him feel like he’s standing in the middle of a bright room.</p><p>Ian’s eyes wander all over the third computer screen, seeing his face down in the bottom corner of the game window with Mickey’s.</p><p>Mickey hands him the controller. </p><p>“No way,” Ian whispers, as if the people online can’t hear him, and Mickey gives him a nudge. </p><p>“Just do it,” he says, lightly exasperated.</p><p>Holy fuck. Holy fuck, fucking fuck. How is this happening?</p><p>Ian’s eyes scan across the gaming equipment in front of him--the monitors and the microphone and the pair of gaming headphones provided by SneakAttack but foregone by Mickey, who’d worn his own.</p><p>Ian doesn’t give a fuck about playing games in front of people; he’s going to be embarrassingly jumpy, and he knows it. Whatever. It’s all fun. But there’s something about the fact that he’s currently on camera holding a controller, over two thousand people watching him, that makes his belly squeeze.</p><p>He looks to Mickey, who nods at him, and then pulls on the extra pair of headphones.</p><p>And after swallowing heavily, Ian unpauses the game.</p><p>[*] It’s absolutely the most terrifying media experience of his life, the sensation of being stalked around a Victorian mansion by a girl crawling on all fours and making wheezy clicking noises making his skin crawl.</p><p>Ian has his character sprint as fast as he can, but he immediately finds out that that isn’t the way to do it, as the louder he is, the more easily he’s spotted, Alice taking to chasing him down rather than creeping up on him.</p><p>He tries again, then again, then again, taking it slower this time but unable to make it to the safety checkpoints before Alice reaches him, the death-scene animation graphic and brutal. [*]</p><p>He tries again and, after running into a wall in his nerves and halting his progress, leading to a slaughter, he blows out a frustrated breath and says emphatically, “<i>Fuck</i> this game.” He pauses. Looks across the desk at the game developer. “No offense, Charlie.”</p><p>That must’ve been exactly the right thing to say, as Mickey suddenly laughs in a way that feels <i>real</i>, his face lighting up with it, and then leans over to read the chat, which is moving at lighting speed.</p><p>He hums and taps at his bottom lip with his fingers, then says, “Polly says you need to sneak most of the way and then sprint once the safezone’s in sight,” Mickey says, eyeing the monitor.</p><p>Ian tries that, and it gets him about halfway through the sequence. He tries again and gets a little further, and by the third time he’s tried it, he’s gotten further than Mickey has. </p><p>“Yesss,” he whispers to himself, eyes wandering to the chat. “Thanks, Polly.”</p><p>This minor victory seems to be the confidence boost Ian needs because the next time, everything shakes out perfectly, Ian sneaking the character at snail-speed along the hallways until a safezone is in view, then booking it before the creepy-ass little girl can catch him. </p><p>In the end, he makes it all the way through the downstairs rooms and outside into the rainy backyard.</p><p>“Fuuuuck,” Ian exhales as the door closes and he pauses the game. He blows out a loud, relieved breath and turns to Mickey, who’s looking at him mostly poker-faced but with the tiniest hint of amusement in his eyes. “Shit. What the fuck is this game?”</p><p>He smiles, eyes flitting over to the chat, where people are apparently both laughing at him and cheering him on.</p><p>Fine. Ian puts down the controller, swipes his sweaty palms on his jeans, and then reaches to unpause the game.</p><p>[*] A brief cutscene then causes the character to turn to face the door, the window coming into center view as well as the shadowy figure of Alice in the distance, lit only by the light of the moon through the windows. It’s a little cheesy, but it’s effective, the instrumentals swelling in the background and Ian expecting nothing less than a fucking lightning bolt to add to the atmosphere.</p><p>And he should know it’s coming--Mickey <i>absolutely</i> knows based on the face Ian spies him making to the camera--but in that moment, whatever, Ian’s on a high.</p><p>Just when he’s expecting perhaps a lightning bolt, maybe Alice to slink away, maybe the character to turn back around to face the yard, Alice’s chewed, decomposing face appears in the window of the door, having apparently crawled in the blink of an eye across the room. [*]</p><p><i>Jesus fucking Christ</i>. Ian jumps in a way that sends Charlie and Mo into stitches. He feels like his heart might actually explode, his breath suddenly coming fast and a whooshing in his ears.</p><p>“Oh no!” Charlie yells cheesily--way too enthusiastic. “She got you!”</p><p>Mickey, for his part, holds it together, but Ian turns to find his shoulders shaking with laughter. He looks like he’s in Stage 1 of funeral laughter, right before it becomes an outright laugh and when it’s still somehow being contained by the press of your lips.</p><p>“Shut the fuck up,” Ian complains, shaking his arms like he’s getting the willies out. He feels limp and adrenaline-filled.</p><p>Blowing out a breath, he checks the chat, curious, and while it’s almost moving too fast to read, he is able to catch</p><p>
  <i>lmaoooooo</i>
</p><p><i>What’s happening</i> 😅</p><p><i>tell em, ian!</i> 😤😤</p><p><i>Cute</i> 😍</p><p>
  <i>IAN &gt; MICK MILK</i>
</p><p>
  <i>who tf is this guy</i>
</p><p>
  <i>That was funny, but in all seriousness, how were you not expecting that?</i>
</p><p>“I dunno,” he says in answer to the last guy, turning to Mickey and holding out the controller in question.</p><p>Mickey shrugs and motions for Ian to keep going.</p><p>After gathering his bearings, Ian starts back up the game and continues for another fifteen minutes--long enough to explore the backyard. Thankfully, there are no more jump-scares, this bit much more clue and reading-heavy.</p><p>Ian isn’t really sure what he should do when he examines a letter from a box he’d had his character dig up out of a plot of dirt, so he just does what Mickey always does, which is read it in full if it’s relatively short and read the relevant parts if it’s long.</p><p>This one’s short, so he reads the whole thing out loud, then <i>hmm</i>s as he tries to make sense of where it fits in with the story.</p><p>Mickey spends much of his time drinking his Monster and reading the chat. Every now and again, he’ll insert a theory, telling Ian to pause the game so he can connect some dots.</p><p>Bottom line: he thinks Alice was poisoned by her stepmother. Evidence for the fact only gets stronger when the next section of the chapter--and one of the final, according to Charlie--takes place in a greenhouse.</p><p>Ian hands back over the controller outside the greenhouse doors, assuming shit’s about to go down, and this time, Mickey accepts. </p><p>Ian sits there for a moment beside Mickey, feeling awkward and unsure. Mickey never tells him what to do with himself, but assuming he should probably give the floor back to the guy the viewers actually tuned in to see, he rolls himself two feet to the left, out of the range of the camera. He leaves on the headphones though, as the audio’s much better, and by now, he’s invested in the stupid game.</p><p>He watches from nearby as Mickey finishes up the chapter, discovering remnants of various plants used to produce poisons in the greenhouse and then undergoing a final confrontation with Alice, who morphs into some sort of long-legged spider, her legs and arms elongating and her mouth becoming fang-filled, dripping with venom.</p><p>It’s appalling in a way that makes Ian murmur <i>fuck</i>, and Mickey looks at him and shrugs, completely unbothered, before going in.</p><p>It takes him several tries to beat her, and when he finally does, he sets down the controller and drums his fingers on the desk in front of him in a way that makes Ian feel floaty inside.</p><p>And thus goes the end of the chapter. A message pops up alerting the player that they’re done with Chapter One and asking if they’d like to continue to Chapter Two. Mickey returns to the menu screen at that point and then proceeds--completely unashamedly considering an actual writer is in the room--to run through the things he liked and didn’t like about the game. He liked most of the jump-scares, and the story was interesting, though predictable. He thought Alice morphing into a spider was the dumbest shit, and he thought some of the chase sequences were unnecessarily contrived and destroyed the player’s sense of immersion. </p><p>Charlie engages him in a dialogue about his criticisms, and at that point, Ian gets up and heads back over to Mo, who’s cringing due to the awkwardness over the exchange and Mickey’s complete lack of giving a shit over the fact that he just used the phrase <i>dumb as fuck</i> to describe a boss battle written by a person in the room.</p><p>“Chances you think we’ll be invited back?” Mo whispers when Ian sinks down beside her, and he chuckles.</p><p>“Probably pretty fuckin’ high. I mean, they definitely didn’t invite him because he’s so sweet.”</p><p>Mo makes a <i>fair enough</i> face and holds out her water bottle in a toast. “He’s a nightmare. No wonder he can’t hold down a publicist.”</p><p>“Really?”</p><p>“Not that he wants one. He tells me all he wants is someone to get him jobs and deal with the <i>boring people</i>, so what can you do? He can’t be bothered with the press, and he wants to take care of all his social media and public perception on his own.” Mo shrugs. “Why not, I say.”</p><p>Ian hums and watches Mickey talk animatedly to Charlie, who, despite what had to be stinging criticism, appears rapt.</p><p>He’s going to be just fine.</p><p>Mo nudges Ian, and he turns to look at her. “Guess you’ve been <i>outed</i>, so to speak.”</p><p>Ian’s belly flips and his blood turns to ice.</p><p>Shit. He has, hasn’t he? The name was one thing, but now he’s spent a full half-hour playing a video game on MICK MILK’s stream. His face, his voice, his fucking <i>mannerisms</i>, all out there, probably already clipped and screenshotted and saved.</p><p>He’s probably all over MICK MILK Twitter.</p><p>He’s got his phone off and silenced, shoved deep in his pocket, and he’s a little afraid to look at it. What are the fans going to think about it all? What will their theories be? It’s fucking Valentine’s Day, and Ian was clearly spending the evening with Mickey just a few weeks after showing up on Mandy’s Instagram.</p><p>He blows out a breath. Too late now to do anything. He grabs up the energy drink Ethan had brought him earlier, pops the tab, takes a sip, and avoids checking his phone.</p><p>---</p><p>For the next ten minutes, Mickey finishes up his conversation with Charlie, which ends completely respectfully and in a way that gives Ian the impression that Charlie’s wipped. Afterward, as he’s signing off, Mickey thanks his viewers for sticking around and tells them to tune in to Nightmare Hour on YouTube the second week in March for the rest of the game--an hour a day, as always, until the end.</p><p>When he’s done, mic and video off, he displays his merch and socials page and plays Billie Joe Armstrong’s cover of “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oHNkfUaIrkI">I Think We’re Alone Now</a>.”</p><p>“Thanks so much, Mick,” Charlie says, getting up from his desk and shaking Mickey’s hand. “Really appreciate your honest feedback and hope you’ll enjoy the rest.”</p><p>Mickey shrugs as if it’s nothing and Mo jumps in then to thank SneakAttack for the invite.</p><p>Now free of social obligation, Mickey saunters over to Ian, his own energy drink in hand. “That was <i>not</i> scary,” he begins before taking a sip.</p><p>Ian bumps him. “Oh, fuck you. You even said the jump-scares were good.”</p><p>Mickey shrugs, apparently his favorite action, and turns to go grab his bag.</p><p>It takes another half-hour to get everything turned off and packed away, then fifteen more minutes for Mickey to take pictures with the SneakAttack crew, many of which look like fan pictures more than anything, several of the people milling around clearly having no other purpose for being there on a Sunday except to watch MICK MILK in action.</p><p>Mo snaps a few photos of her own, and when the SneakAttack guys are starting to shut things down on their end, she bullies Ian and Mickey into a couple pictures together.</p><p>They’re silly, the two of them standing beside each other like two siblings on their first day of school, but for the last picture, Mo puts on the front camera and turns around so Ian and Mickey can get in the selfie with her, one over each shoulder.</p><p>Her smile and peace sign lightens the mood, and Mickey makes a cute, <i>badass</i> face, Ian therefore feeling okay to cross his eyes and stick out his tongue.</p><p>“Beautiful,” Mo jokes, and Mickey pokes her side teasingly, causing her to smack his chest with the back of her hand.</p><p>Once everybody’s done, paid, and Mo’s finished dealing with some sort of business for a few minutes in a hipstery guy’s office, they climb in an Uber Black. It’s then that Ian finally works up the nerve to pull out his phone, the display of which is simply filled with notifications.</p><p>He’s gaining followers, comments, and message requests on Instagram again, and Ian knows that has to be due to Twitter, as his last name wasn’t mentioned during the livestream. </p><p>Steeling himself, he opens the app and starts to scroll his timeline.</p><p>Not <i>all</i> of the posts are about him, but there are certainly enough to imply that he’s been a large topic of conversation over the past couple hours since he made his livestream appearance.</p><p>There are screencaps of him playing, each with upwards of 15-20 retweets and double the amount of likes, and when Ian clicks to read the associated comments, he finds that they’re things like 😍😍😍 and <i>this is the guy from the cg session and mandy’s ig post and i still don’t know what to do with this information</i> and <i>Theory: What if Mandy was at SneakAttack HQ as well and Ian came with her as her V-day date? It would make sense for him to play b/c we know based on the CG thing that he’s a gamer.</i></p><p>Curious, he searches up his name and finds more of the same, a handful of entire threads dedicated to him.</p><p>
  <span class="font-small"><b>Polly ❤️️ Mick 🥛:</b> Mick read my suggestion for Ian on his stream. Gonna be talking about this for the next month 🤩</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">      <b>emory245185:</b> hi can u tell me who ian is pls 😊 xoxo</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">            <b>Polly ❤️️ Mick 🥛:</b> Ian Gallagher 😁 He’s Mandy’s best friend from college!</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">                  <b>emory245185:</b> thank u 🤗 does he have a twitter</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">                        <b>Polly ❤️️ Mick 🥛:</b> No I don’t think so but he’s on Instagram @ iang_insta</span>
</p><p>and</p><p>
  <span class="font-small"><b>nightmare babie:</b> who’s **** do i have to **** to see ian and mickey play together again</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">      <b>mickey’s black nail:</b> yeah, i’m surprised by how much i liked it. mickey looked like he was having sm fun. 😭</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">            <b>jelly:</b> i hated it, i don’t want to see his ugly ass again</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">      <b>🦄 Jesse:</b> What is Ian’s full name?</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">            <b>nightmare babie:</b> ian gallagher i think</span>
</p><p>and</p><p>
  <span class="font-small"><b>👾 madz 👾:</b> so we’re just gonna keep acting like this guy ain’t mickey’s bf lmao like…..</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">      <b>NickieMickie</b> Elaborate?</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">            <b>👾 madz 👾:</b> i’m so fucking tired of people pretending mickey’s straight. it’s literally valentine’s day, he brought his bf to his stream lmao</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">                  <b>Polly ❤️️ Mick 🥛:</b> I think Mandy was there and she brought Ian. I definitely heard a girl laughing in the background more than once.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">                        <b>👾 madz 👾:</b> delusional, mickey isn’t going to fuck you. ian gallagher is his bf, they met at the cg session. i don’t know why that’s so hard for people to get….</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">      <b>Polly ❤️️ Mick 🥛:</b> No. 😩😩 He’s not gay.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">            <b>👾 madz 👾:</b> this is why mick doesn’t share his life with us. </span>
</p><p>and</p><p>
  <span class="font-small"><b>Fuck U-Up:</b> Ian Gallagher, if you read this I’m free on Thursday night and would like to hang out. Please respond to this and then hang out with me on Thursday night when I’m free.</span>
</p><p>“Hey,” Mickey says beside him, breaking Ian out of his dazed scrolling. “Get the fuck off Twitter.”</p><p>“It’ll drive you mad,” Mo adds, reaching across Mickey and patting Ian’s leg comfortingly. </p><p>Ian nods because yeah, he can see that happening. He closes out of the app and locks his phone, turning it upside down--out of sight, out of mind.</p><p>“They’re like, speculating about shit,” he murmurs, glancing over at his seatmates, who surprisingly don’t look even remotely fazed.</p><p>Mickey shrugs. “So?”</p><p>“So it’s, um, y’know.” Eloquent. Ian tries to signal with his eyes that they’re speculating about Mickey’s sexuality and relationship to Ian without actually saying it. But if Mo and Mickey pick up on it or even care at all, they don’t act like it.</p><p>“Bit of advice,” Mo says, turning her body to face him, knees pushing against Mickey’s thighs in a way that shows just how comfortable they are with each other. “Unfollow all the fan accounts. I don’t know if you’re active on Twitter, but don’t engage. It’ll pass, just like everything else--you know, accusations of homophobia and the like.” She winks, and the tips of Ian’s ears go hot.</p><p>“He’s got a secret stan account,” Mickey intones. “Prob’ly runs the rumor mill.”</p><p>“Oh. Yeah. I’m like, #1 Mickey Stan.”</p><p>“Gross.”</p><p>Ian snorts. He catches Mo watching the two of them, and he quickly diverts his eyes out the window, the eleven o’clock Chicago streets passing in a blur of light. Idly, he looks down to his lap and flips over his phone again, seeing he has more Instagram notifications.</p><p>Mickey elbows him, and he puts his phone all the way in his pocket.</p><p>---</p><p>The Uber drops them off at an Asian fusion take-out place a few blocks from the hotel. It’s open ‘til midnight, and it’s empty save for a tired-looking employee wiping down the counter and keeping an eye on the clock.</p><p>They order food, and while they wait, Mickey and Mo get on their phones, doing whatever they do--social media stuff, business stuff. It’s only a little after nine in LA, so maybe a somewhat reasonable hour to make social media posts.</p><p>Ian sneaks his phone out of his pocket when he isn’t being watched and sees that yeah, he has a notification that Mickey’s made a Twitter post. Aside from that, he’s already gained 102 more Instagram followers in just the span of three hours, and predictably, his post with Mickey is blowing up with comments again.</p><p>He swipes open a notification about tagged photos and sees that fans with MICK MILK accounts have been tagging him in screenshots from the stream, and there’s even a fancam he doesn’t yet watch with the caption, <i>Happy Valentine’s Day to my followers! Here is a treat from Mick’s stream tonight. Stay beautiful xoxo</i></p><p>Their names are called then, and Ian scrambles to put his phone away. </p><p>---</p><p>When they arrive back at the hotel and head into the lobby, which is bright enough to make the three of them squint after they’ve been walking the merely streetlamp-lit streets of Chicago, they hem and haw for a moment, Mickey and Mo casually chatting and everyone twisting their individual plastic take-out bags in their hands and taking intermittent sips of their styrofoam cups of pop.</p><p>“Do you wanna eat with us?” Ian asks Mo during a lull in conversation, figuring he should; it’s only polite, after all, and plus, he feels like he needs to thank her for being cool to him all day.</p><p>Mo shakes her head. “No, no, no,” she says, voice going teasingly high-pitched. “I’ve got a date with Netflix and my threesome with Ben and Jerry later, remember.” </p><p>She winks at him, and Ian smiles, nodding.</p><p>“And with that,” she says, bowing theatrically, “I bid the two of you adieu. Happy Valentine’s Day.” She kisses Mickey’s cheek in a way that makes him scrunch up his face like a kid and then gives Ian a side hug.</p><p>Once they’re alone, Mickey peers around the room, eyes scanning as if he’s looking for something, then begins to make his way toward the bank of elevators. Ian follows, and once they’re inside, Mickey hits the number four rather than six for their floor.</p><p>“Wrong floor,” Ian says, reaching out to correct it, but Mickey taps his hand away. </p><p>“Not goin’ to the room.”</p><p><i>Where’re we going, then?</i> Ian wants to ask but doesn’t. Instead, he shrugs and lets Mickey lead the way.</p><p>The fourth floor is clearly primarily used for events, various conference rooms and a few ballrooms currently filled with cloth-covered tables with unlit tea lights on each one. It reminds Ian distinctly of the location in which the cooperative gameplay session took place at the other hotel, a space meant for renting and parties.</p><p>Ian doesn’t ask whether or not they’re supposed to be here, as it’s not like it matters. The hall lights are on, at least, so it isn’t obviously forbidden for guests.</p><p>At the end of the hallway, there’s a room brighter than the others, and upon entering Ian suddenly feels like he needs to pause to catch his breath.</p><p>It’s a medium-sized room, clearly recently decorated for a Valentine’s Day event and then undecorated over the past few hours, the candles still everywhere and the furniture partially tables and partially couches, as if the hotel staff gave up at the end of their shift and decided to save the rest of the transition for the next day.</p><p>Filling the north wall is an <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/519f1ab3ac5c5de1eccbf6995c09ac06/c928eddb50f42026-61/s1280x1920/6ecf43a8881312564c595b089d4c5d123a10eb29.jpg">arch-shaped window providing the most gorgeous, up-close view of Chicago lights, the nearby hotels and skyscrapers shining golden in the purple-blue darkness</a>.</p><p>Ian’s tempted to put his hand on the window, to press up against it and look out, transfixed by the enormity of it all, by the magnificence of this city in which he was born and raised and yet still has seen so little of, even after nearly twenty years.</p><p>There’s a purple, cushioned bench against the windows, but Mickey sets down his take-out, grabs hold of a small, circular table, and drags it over to the window, followed by two chairs.</p><p>And he knows Mickey may not mean it--may not even be thinking of anything other than <i>Wow, this is beautiful, this is cool, and I’m hungry</i>--but it’s the most romantic thing Ian’s ever experienced in his life.</p><p>He and Mickey sit down and unpack their food, and neither of them say anything for the longest time.</p><p>The room lights are dim, seemingly the bare essentials and the ones that likely stay on always, but the lights from outside illuminate the two of them, making Ian feel like he’s somewhere otherworldly. Somewhere magical.</p><p>“So how’d you like the livestream thing?” Mickey asks, digging into his teriyaki beef and rice. He’s a messy eater, but not in a gross way, and anyway, Ian’s the same, dumping white sauce on his rice and stirring it up before taking a bite.</p><p>He chews thoughtfully for a moment, then swallows. “It was fun,” he says with confidence before grabbing up his drink and taking a slurp off the straw. “New. I liked it.”</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>“Yeah.” Ian snickers. “Kinda felt like a dumbass, but…”</p><p>“I mean…” Mickey raises an eyebrow at him.</p><p>“Fuck you. We’ve had this conversation.”</p><p>“That one in the window was the most predictable fuckin’ jump-scare I’ve ever seen.”</p><p>Ian shovels in a mouthful of shrimp and rice and, with his mouth full, grumbles, “Leave me alone. You’re an asshole.”</p><p>“Uh huh.”</p><p>“Yep.” Ian stiffens his chin at him. “Now I’m gonna be famous for bein’ a fuckin’ pussy.”</p><p>Mickey’s belly jumps with a laugh, but he doesn’t let it manifest out loud. “Yeah, well.”</p><p>Ian flips him off, and then two of them eat in silence for a few minutes.</p><p>On a whim, Ian pulls his phone out of his pocket and checks it, unsilencing it for the first time in hours on the way.</p><p>He has another tag notification, and, out of curiosity, he opens up the app. Mo has tagged him in a story post. There’s a green ring around her icon in the story tray, and his heart leaps at the thought that he’s apparently made it to her Close Friends list.</p><p>Ian reviews her story and then holds out his phone for Mickey to see. It’s a series of pictures from the livestream, including the selfie of him and Mo, an awkward picture of him and Mickey, and the one of the three of them, white text at the bottom captioning it <i>Three absolute stunners</i>.</p><p>“Great,” Mickey comments, and Ian smirks at him.</p><p>While he’s on Instagram, he checks his follower account again, seeing he’s now just past the 850 total followers mark, then finally taps play on the fancam he’s been tagged in. </p><p>It’s made to 30 seconds of “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FuvWc3ToDHg">Myth</a>” by Beach House, the music slowed down and pitch lowered so that the woman singing the chorus sounds like a man.</p><p>“The fuck is that?” Mickey asks while Ian watches and eats, something in his chest squeezing with the absolute weirdness of it all. </p><p>Ian hands Mickey his phone and examines his face carefully as he watches the fancam. Ian’s not sure if the fancam was meant to be romantic or not, as the clips were just random parts of the livestream. Most of them do involve Ian, however, even though he was only on it for 1/8th of the overall stream.</p><p>Mickey’s face remains largely emotionless, but when he hands Ian’s phone back, he rolls his eyes. “Good song, though,” he comments, and Ian gives a huff of a laugh.</p><p>Before he puts his phone away, he reads the comments on the post. There are only six, but they seem mostly complimentary of him with the exception of one.</p><p><i>are they dating? please tell me they’re dating</i> followed by two pleading-eyes emojis.</p><p>
  <i>They’re adorable. Is this Mickey’s friend? Isn’t he dating Mandy?</i>
</p><p><i>who is he</i> 😩</p><p><i>lovely as always, becca!</i> ♥️</p><p>
  <i>idgaf, he was the best part of the livestream</i>
</p><p>
  <i>heat miser lookin motherfucker</i>
</p><p>To be fair, the last one makes him laugh, and there’s very few ginger jokes that get to him anymore. After all, you don’t make it through public school with red hair and freckles without getting the absolute most heinous shit thrown your way.</p><p>“What?” Mickey asks, mouth full of rice.</p><p>“Somebody called me Heat Miser.”</p><p>Mickey snorts so loud it’s almost comical, then coughs, having choked on a grain of rice. He picks up his drink and slurps away for a moment, pausing intermittently to cough.</p><p>“Jesus Christ,” he forces out, pounding on his chest with his fist. “Fuck.”</p><p>“I take it you’re not going to jump to defend my honor?”</p><p>Mickey gives him a look. “It’s fuckin’ hilarious.”</p><p>“Thanks.”</p><p>Ian feels a kick to his shoe, and he smiles to himself, pleased, as he closes out of Instagram and sets his phone back down on the table.</p><p>“So uh,” Mickey starts, voice suddenly somber and eyes to his food. “Sorry or whatever.”</p><p>Ian looks up at him, curious. “For what?”</p><p>“I dunno. For kinda throwin’ you in there. I don’t know if you wanted it or not.”</p><p>It’s sweet of him to apologize. Ultimately, Ian doesn’t care all that much about what Mickey did, even if it absolutely made his life weirder and was maybe a step into a slightly uncomfortable public situation he’s not sure if he’s ready for.</p><p>Ian takes a long drink off his pop and wipes his lips on the back of his hand.</p><p>“It’s okay,” he says, voice matching Mickey’s tone. “I mean. It’s weird, and I don’t know if I like people talkin’ about me on social media, but.” He shrugs. “It was a lot of fun, and it’s cool, too, y’know. I like doin’ that shit with you.” Fuck. “I mean.”</p><p>He drinks more of his pop to shut himself up, not knowing where he would possibly go after the <i>I mean</i>.</p><p>Mickey studies his face for a long moment as if trying to learn his secrets.</p><p>“Would you do it again?” he asks finally, eyes sincere.</p><p>Ian presses his lips together and slowly nods. “Yeah.”</p><p>“Cool.”</p><p>They continue to eat in silence, finishing up the rest of their meal and closing their take-out boxes.</p><p>After that, there’s not much to do. The two of them sit quietly, drinking the remainder of their pop and peering out at the city. </p><p>“You like city views,” Mickey comments, and it isn’t a question. Something about it feels soft, gentle in a way that gets at Ian’s heart.</p><p>He nods. “Yeah. I do.”</p><p>---</p><p>After another ten minutes, they clean up and head out, leaving the table where it is. Instead of taking the elevator, they use the staircase, heading up two flights and ending up right in front of their room, which is at the end of the sixth floor hallway.</p><p>Once inside, they dress in their pajamas and for all intents and purposes get ready for bed. Mickey comes in and pees while Ian’s brushing his teeth. Ian’s no stranger to that--having grown up with one upstairs bathroom, it’s not unusual to have a sibling of either gender come in and use the toilet while you’re showering or at the sink--but Mickey with his soft dick out in front of him, taking a piss, is bizarre to Ian.</p><p>Maybe it’s because it’s not even remotely sexual and therefore indicative of a comfort Ian wasn’t sure Mickey felt with him up to this moment. Maybe it’s a lot of things.</p><p>Ian diverts his eyes, trying not to be weird about it, and finishes up at the sink.</p><p>He’s several hours late taking his meds, which isn’t ideal, though the likelihood that it’ll actually mess with anything is slim.</p><p>Quickly, while Mickey does his thing at the sink--washing his hands, then his face--Ian hurries back into the bedroom, gets his SUN EVE. pills from his organizer, and takes them with a half-empty bottle of water sitting on the desk that could belong to either of them.</p><p>He wonders then when exactly they’ll reach a point where it’s cool for him to be open about his shit. Maybe it’s cool now. Maybe it never will be.</p><p>Mickey closes the bathroom door, which is weird because unless he’s about to take a shit, Ian can’t think of a reason why. And then it occurs to him that maybe Mickey’s taking <i>his</i> meds, and maybe they’re just two medicated idiots with mental illnesses who are each trying to hide it from the other.</p><p>Ian climbs onto his bed and sits cross-legged, playing idly on his phone. He wonders, as he’s wondered before, what exactly Mickey has.</p><p>Zoloft. Depression, OCD, PTSD, panic attacks, anxiety. Ian thinks about the shit with Mickey’s dad, <i>homophobic nazis</i>, and he thinks about how the dosage was upped from 75mg to 100mg, and he wonders a lot of things that make his heart hurt.</p><p>Mickey comes out of the bathroom then, lips pink from the minty toothpaste and earrings out. His hair is fluffier, like he’s brushed out the gel, and there’s a black star sticker on his jawline.</p><p>Ian points at it, and Mickey rolls his eyes at him. “It’s a zit patch. Mind your own business.”</p><p>Cute as fuck. Ian chuckles as Mickey grabs his phone from the desk and climbs onto his bed.</p><p>Taking advantage of the quiet moment, Ian pulls up Mickey’s Twitter and finally reads his tweet from earlier: </p><p>
  <i>thanks for checkin out my stream from sneakattack hq. ‘dust to dust’ will be available on ps5 and pc on 3/9. vod will be posted to yt shortly and i’ll be playing the rest after the game releases.</i>
</p><p>Ian taps to view the replies to the tweet and sees that most of them are either positive--of the stream or Mickey--or strangely random. The top reply, which has been liked 35 times and viewed over a thousand, is a fancam with the caption <i>we stan the one true king</i> 👑.</p><p>Ian taps it. It’s a fucking fancam of himself reacting to jump-scares, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TxBqF8KRBzc">a weird chillhop song with saxophones</a> playing over it. He looks like an absolute dumbass, and the slowed-down shots of him are intercut with Mickey making exasperated faces in reaction. </p><p>“Oh my God,” he says, and Mickey makes a curious noise from over on his bed. “Look at the top comment on your tweet.”</p><p>Mickey laughs so hard when he plays the video that Ian almost feels like he’s in a dreamworld, like this is an upside down version of grumpy Mickey, who’s currently basically rolling on the bed with giggles.</p><p>“Are you kidding?” Ian teases, leaving his phone on his bed and, what the fuck, whatever, getting up and lauching himself onto Mickey, whose giggles have reached a point of silence, followed by random gasps for air.</p><p>His face has gone all red with it, and Ian thinks he’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, this sweet, precious boy laughing uncontrollably. Happy.</p><p>Ian holds him gently by the wrists, his body completely flush to Mickey’s from belly to ankles, and looks down at him.</p><p>God.</p><p>Mickey continues to shake under him, his ribs stuttering against Ian’s with giggles, and Ian can’t help but grin, can’t help but lean over and bite his hand for no good reason other than because he wants to.</p><p>“Ow!” Mickey yells, wiggling his hand free and pulling Ian’s hair. “Bitch!”</p><p>Ian giggles then, and Mickey rolls his eyes and asks, “What’s your Twitter username?”</p><p>“It’s a secret. Why?”</p><p>“‘cause I wanna keep tabs on your ass. The fame’s gonna go to your head.”</p><p>“So you agree that I’m famous now.”</p><p>“Fuck you. What is it?”</p><p>“If I tell you, you have to follow me.”</p><p>“For the thousandth time, I ain’t followin’ your ass.”</p><p>Ian shrugs, removing his hands from Mickey’s wrists and settling down more heavily on him, elbows resting on either side of his ribcage. “Then you’re not gettin’ my username.”</p><p>“It’s probably something stupid, anyway.”</p><p>“So stupid.” Ian smiles, the moment transforming from silly to fond. He watches Mickey’s face, eyes skimming over every inch of it unashamed--the stray hairs beneath the line of his perfectly-shaped brows, the light smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose, the bit of dry skin in the center of his top lip, the star sticker covering a pimple from what’s probably an ingrown beard hair along his jaw.</p><p>“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he says, voice gentle.</p><p>Mickey rolls his eyes at him. “Gross.” But then he’s getting his arms around Ian’s back and pulling up his T-shirt from behind, and Ian wonders how <i>gross</i> Mickey thinks it really is.</p><p>They roll around, undressing as much as they can before needing to separate to get it done, and once they’re naked, Mickey shoves Ian back against the headboard in a way that makes him laugh once, surprised. He climbs onto his lap.</p><p>Ian reaches for the lube and condom--a strip of which is lying out in the open on the nightstand--and encourages Mickey to push up on his knees. And that’s how he preps him, squirting a dollop of lube on his fingers and reaching behind, sliding them and massaging them into the cleft of Mickey’s ass. </p><p>In this position, Mickey’s abdomen is in line with Ian’s mouth, and he leans in and presses sucking kisses to the soft, warm skin there, dipping one finger, then two into him and gently thrusting in and out in a way that makes Mickey sigh from the dual sensations. </p><p>Ian likes him so much. He likes the noises he makes, the way his skin smells, the way his belly bruises easily with hickies and the way he clenches around Ian’s fingers when he looks down and sees Ian’s given him three. </p><p>With his left hand, Ian takes Mickey’s cock and gives it a series of slow strokes in counterpoint to the thrusts of his fingers and the sucks of his mouth. Mickey bows and grasps the top of the headboard behind Ian, holding on as he lowers his face to Ian’s hair, burying it there and exhaling little grumbly <i>uhhh</i>s that make Ian light up inside.</p><p>Ian removes his fingers from Mickey’s body, then works in three. He turns his sucks and kisses to licks, sliding the hand on Mickey’s cock up his side and squeezing him just under his ribs, stretching upward and elongating his spine so he can touch the pad of his tongue to Mickey’s nipples.</p><p>Mickey likes that, clearly, breathing a hard, hot breath into Ian’s hair. </p><p>It’s a stretch due to their position, but Ian does his best to lick and suck at him, working Mickey’s tiny pink nipples between his lips and against his tongue in rhythmic pulses as he fucks into him with his fingers, everything wet and slick and making a <i>squelch</i>ing noise that makes Ian thrust his own hips upward, trying fruitlessly to get some sort of contact.</p><p>“Okay, okay,” Mickey whispers, lifting his face from Ian’s head and reaching down to take Ian’s cock in hand. “Get in me.”</p><p>Ian removes his fingers and wipes them on Mickey’s discarded blue boxer briefs. And for a moment, he loses himself. </p><p>In all fairness, Mickey does, too, guiding Ian’s bare cock to his opening and starting to press it against it, getting his arm around Ian’s neck and squeezing him for balance as he starts to try to lower himself down.</p><p>God, it feels so good. Ian squeezes his eyes shut and takes Mickey by the hips, then by the ass, spreading him open and getting his fingers down to touch at himself as he works his way inside. And it’s as he feels the distinct lack of latex that he comes back to his senses.</p><p>“Shit, Mickey, condom,” he murmurs, taking his own cock in hand and gently removing the inch or so that was on its way inside him raw.</p><p>For a second, Mickey looks strange, almost hurt in a way that makes Ian want to apologize.</p><p>Maybe this is weird. It’s not like he’s always been responsible about condoms. He fucked tons of guys without them before his diagnosis, though he knows now that was risky as shit and not something to brag about. </p><p>He trusts Mickey, and he knows he wouldn’t try to fuck him without a condom if he had anything, but well, they probably shouldn’t. For what it's worth, Ian’s never been tested in his life. <i>He</i> could have something.</p><p>He diverts his eyes from Mickey’s face and reaches over to grab the condom on the bed. Mickey moves back so Ian can apply it and waits quietly--<i>strangely</i>, almost awkwardly quietly--while Ian lubes up.</p><p>“‘kay,” Ian says afterward, smiling. He holds out his arms for Mickey to come back in, and when he does, he gives him a squeeze like a hug before sliding his hands back down to his ass.</p><p>Together, they work Ian inside, and when they fuck, it’s unhurried. Mickey wraps his arms around Ian’s neck and kisses along his jaw and throat. Ian drags his fingers up and down Mickey’s back, grips at his waist, and slowly eases him up and down, panting at the squeezing sensation, the slick drag of himself being engulfed in Mickey’s body.</p><p>Mickey makes soft little noises, not putting on a show, not doing anything but working himself on Ian, feeling good, kissing at his neck, sucking at him.</p><p>“Shit,” Ian breathes. He blows out a breath that ruffles Mickey’s hair and then dips down to touch his mouth to his shoulder, then his neck. He slides his hands up Mickey’s back, rubs them across his ribs and feels every bump, every muscle, then moves them further to touch at his armpits, not to tickle, just to feel the damp hair and skin that makes his fingers feel chalky from deodorant.</p><p>God, he likes him so much. It’s an overwhelming feeling as they’re doing this--fucking this way. Ian makes a high noise and worries for a moment that it’s written all over his face. </p><p><i>I like you, I like you, I like you,</i> he thinks, and he knows his face is red with it, eyes are glassy with it. Mickey leans back, braces his hands on Ian’s shoulders and stares at him, and Ian knows Mickey sees it. <i>I like you, I like you, I like you.</i></p><p>Suddenly, it isn’t enough, Ian’s hips unable to move fast enough for what he wants.</p><p>He squeezes Mickey around the waist, then wraps his arms fully around him in a hug, and with a heave, maneuvers them until Mickey’s on his back on the bed and Ian’s between his legs.</p><p>It didn’t happen the way it does in porn--Ian’s dick slips out of Mickey’s ass in the move--but it just takes a moment to slip back in, takes less than that to cup Mickey’s face in his hands as he fucks him.</p><p>He doesn’t know why he does it. This feels like a pre-kiss moment and they don’t kiss. But as he moves his hips, thrusting into Mickey hard, deep, all he can think is that it feels right to hold him like that, to cradle his precious face in his hands and watch his expression shift as he’s flooded with pleasure.</p><p>“Oh fuck,” Mickey moans, and Ian pulls one hand away so he can slide his arm between them to get at his dick. He grips him, using the slickness at the head as a makeshift lube, and strokes him in time with his thrusts.</p><p>“God, Mickey,” Ian breathes, rubbing his cheek with his thumb--back and forth, back and forth. “You’re so fuckin’ good.”</p><p>Mickey shuts his eyes, squeezes them until they’re crinkles, and pants heavily. “You too,” he murmurs, his fingernails digging into the skin of Ian’s back. “Feels so good.”</p><p>It’s so hot Ian doesn’t know how much longer he can hold on. He leans onto his elbow and hitches Mickey’s legs higher around his waist, letting go of his dick to squeeze at his thigh, to push it up so he can get closer, deeper.</p><p>There’s the sting of nails across his back, and Ian fucks into him harder, faster, until he’s got Mickey groaning, head tilted back and throat bared, absolutely mindless with pleasure.</p><p>Ian dips down to lick a trail up his throat, and after a moment of adjustment, lets go of his thigh to get his hand back on Mickey’s dick, which is now hot and slick, the skin tight and thrumming with blood.</p><p>“Gonna come,” Mickey warns, sliding the hand on Ian’s back up to his hair and gripping at him, pulling him in tight so that Ian has no choice but to suck at the side of his neck, to bite at him a little out of nothing but mounting pleasure.</p><p>He feels the tingles starting within his own body, feels sweat between his thighs and the muscles starting to kick in his pelvis and ass. “Me too,” he murmurs, muffled against the skin of Mickey’s neck. He licks him, sucks him, and starts pistoning his hips hard enough that the bed, made to be silent, starts to squeak just the slightest bit, the sound doing nothing but heightening the intensity of the build and the race to the finish line.</p><p>Mickey inhales through his teeth, a hiss, whispers, “Right there,” and Ian fucks at that spot inside him relentlessly, stroking him rapidly, steadily, and it doesn’t take long for Mickey to make a sweet little yelping noise.</p><p>Mickey squeezes around him as he comes, the muscles rippling against Ian's dick for a few seconds before manifesting in three jets of come that shoot out onto his belly and Ian’s fist, followed by a fourth that’s mostly a stringy dribble, Ian swiping at it with his thumb and rubbing it against the tremoring head of Mickey’s cock, wringing as much pleasure out of him as he can.</p><p>He pauses once Mickey’s thighs start to shake, taking his hand away, and for a moment, they just stare at each other, panting. Mickey’s face is red, and his eyes are pleasure-glassy. He snakes out his tongue to lick at his bottom lip and then blows out a breath.</p><p>“Okay?” Ian asks, giving a gentle thrust, and Mickey nods, moving his arms from around Ian’s back to around his neck, pulling him in so he can finish.</p><p>And finish he does. Ian moves in him again for twenty, thirty seconds more before shaking apart, the orgasm so good, so intense that he feels it down his legs in a way that makes his muscles go slack. </p><p>He moans against Mickey’s neck, feels Mickey’s hand slide up into his hair and rub at him soothingly, and then collapses, boneless and heavy, on top of him.</p><p>“Oh my God,” he groans, exhausted, pecking a kiss to Mickey’s shoulder.</p><p>Mickey chuckles, runs his nails against his scalp, then around to the front, brushing through the gelled bits and likely making it stick up like a hedgehog.</p><p>Ian leans back and stares at Mickey, who smiles at him in a way that can only be described as sweet and affectionate.</p><p>That had felt good. It’d felt good like nothing he’d felt before. Physically, yes, definitely, but there’s also something else. Ian pushes the sweaty hair back off Mickey’s forehead and looks at him. Smells him. The mint on his breath. The salt of his sweat and how it’s mixed with the scent of his hair gel. </p><p>Gently, he eases out of him and tugs off the condom, then stretches back overtop him, not even bothering to wipe off his dick, just letting it rest there with Mickey’s, both of them wet and spent.</p><p>And for the longest time, they just lie there, Mickey’s arms draped loosely around Ian and Ian smoothing back his hair, over and over again.</p><p>“What did you and Mo really talk about?” Mickey asks after a while, not making any move to wiggle out of their position.</p><p>It’s a strange question, seemingly unrelated to anything. Ian shrugs.</p><p>“Not a lot. She asked me about myself. We talked about England and shit. I dunno.”</p><p>Mickey studies him for a moment as if trying to gauge whether he’s lying. Finally, he sniffs and looks away.</p><p>He pulls his arms from around Ian and gets his right hand back in his hair, pushing it backward and grinning in a way Ian knows means he currently looks like a dumbass.</p><p>“Heat Miser,” he says, and Ian grabs at his hand and bites his finger.</p><p>“Will you stop fuckin’ biting me?”</p><p>“No.” He bites him again, then holds his hand for a second. He considers linking their fingers. Doesn’t. Lets it drop instead.</p><p>“Hey,” he says, curious. “Why do you paint your thumbnail?”</p><p>Mickey brings his thumb up to his face and eyes it as if seeing it for the first time. He shrugs. </p><p>And Ian assumes he’s going to say <i>I dunno</i> and change the subject, but to his surprise, he doesn’t.</p><p>“‘cause I can,” he says instead, and while it sounds like a bullshit answer, Ian knows in his heart that it isn’t. <i>Because he can.</i> Because he’s allowed.</p><p>There’s probably more to the story, and maybe Mickey’ll tell him one day. For now, Ian lets this be enough. He nods and smooths back Mickey’s hair again.</p><p>“What’s your tattoo about?” Mickey asks, sliding his hand down and poking at the eagle on Ian’s side.</p><p>Ian huffs a laugh. “<i>Loooong</i> story,” he says, adjusting himself so as to get comfortable, the fact that the two of them are still lying all over each other--even like ten whole minutes after sex--not lost on him.</p><p>“Basically, when I was sixteen, I committed identity theft, joined the Army, and got this done.”</p><p>Mickey looks at him dead-eyed like he thinks Ian’s bullshitting him. But when Ian doesn’t break into laughter, doesn’t say, <i>Gotcha!</i> he raises his eyebrows.</p><p>“What the <i>fuck</i>?” he asks, and he sounds so bewildered that Ian can’t help but laugh.</p><p>“Like I said, long story.” </p><p>Mickey looks at him like, <i>So are ya gonna tell it, or…?</i> and Ian shrugs. “Maybe I’ll tell you later.”</p><p>“Whatever, man.”</p><p>Ian snickers.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Nothing.”</p><p>It <i>is</i> nothing. Just that he’s cute. Just that Ian likes him. He smooths back his hair again and again.</p><p>And on a whim, he leans in and presses a kiss between Mickey’s eyes.</p><p>Mickey <i>does</i> wiggle then and makes a grumbly noise like Ian’s just gotten in bed with cold feet. “Don’t kiss me,” he says, but it’s in a way that Ian thinks doesn’t mean much. A simple protestation with no heat behind it.</p><p>But whatever.</p><p>“I didn’t kiss you,” he counters, running his thumb up and down the space where he had, indeed, kissed, feeling the short, blondish hairs between Mickey’s brows.</p><p>“What was that, then?”</p><p>“Absolutely no kissing occurred.” </p><p>Mickey rolls his eyes and scoffs in a way that makes Ian curious.</p><p>“You don’t like kissing?” he asks, pulling his hand away and, instead, pressing his elbow to the bed and resting his chin on his palm.</p><p>“Ugh.”</p><p>Ian raises an eyebrow at him, calling him on his childish behavior.</p><p>“We’re not fucking dating?” Mickey clarifies, shrugging his shoulders. </p><p>“Mickey, I’ve dated exactly zero people for real, but I’ve kissed plenty of guys.”</p><p>“Good for you?”</p><p>Ian rolls his eyes at him. “What I mean to say is that you’re <i>allowed</i> to kiss during sex. Like, it doesn’t have to be a thing.”</p><p>Mickey gives him a challenging stare, like he’s busy coming up with a response to that and is trying to look tough in the meantime, but it doesn’t fool Ian. Eventually, Mickey seems to dispense with it and looks away, gaze falling on the ceiling.</p><p>“I dunno,” he says, uncomfortable. “It’s like, <i>weird</i>. I guess.”</p><p>Ian pushes up and shrugs. It’s fine. Whatever.</p><p>He studies Mickey’s face for a moment, sees he’s <i>genuinely</i> made him uncomfortable, a blush working its way onto his cheekbones in a way that would be pretty if it weren’t for the fact that it means he’s not super happy with their conversation. </p><p>Ian slides down Mickey’s body and, attempting to distract him, to change the focus of their conversation, begins to kiss a line from his collarbone down to his belly button.</p><p>“So is it okay if I kiss here?” he teases, pressing a squeaking kiss to the fuzzy bit of skin beneath Mickey’s navel, where there’s a sticky bit of drying come. </p><p>Mickey chuckles.</p><p>Mission accomplished.</p><p>“What about here?” Ian goes lower, dragging his mouth along the line of his pelvis and ending with a peck to his dick.</p><p>“Shut up,” Mickey murmurs, a smile on his lips and a hand moving to Ian’s hair.</p><p>“What about--”</p><p>“Just suck my dick.”</p><p>Ian laughs and well, okay, sure. He does just that.</p><p>---</p><p>After their second round, Ian having blown Mickey and then Mickey having jerked Ian off until he came on his belly, they clean up.</p><p>Ian heads into the bathroom for washcloths and returns so they can wipe themselves down. They have some water and pull back on their clothes.</p><p>Ian checks the time. 2:34. Shit.</p><p>He yawns and, awkward as anything, starts to make his way toward the second bed, where he’d slept the night before.</p><p>And he’s two steps away from the edge of it when he feels a hand grab his.</p><p>He turns, heart in his throat.</p><p>“Uh,” Mickey fumbles, then--as if just now realizing he’s holding it--drops Ian’s hand. He looks like he wants to dig himself a hole and crawl in.</p><p>“You can like, sleep with me if you want. I guess. Whatever you want.” He shrugs and turns away, making his way over to his bed like he doesn’t want to see Ian’s reaction to what he’s just said.</p><p>Ian smiles, warm inside, and goes to join Mickey.</p><p>They climb in together. As it’s a double bed rather than a king, there’s no way they can have the full three feet of space between them like normal--the equivalent of what is basically like sleeping in two separate beds.</p><p>This time, there’s about six inches between them, and even then, it’s hard not to accidentally touch each other with any movement, big or small. </p><p>After Mickey turns the light out, they lie together awkwardly, arms and legs pulled in like they’re afraid to touch. But eventually, one of them gives up--or both at the same time--and they allow themselves to relax, Ian’s knees touching the back of Mickey’s thighs, their clothes whispering against each other whenever they shift to get comfortable.</p><p>Ian smells Mickey’s laundry detergent and the green tea hotel shampoo, and he falls asleep thinking of his face and his smile and his sweet breathlessness as he laughs.</p><p>---</p><p>When he wakes, he stretches and checks his watch. 9:26. He lies there for a while, allowing himself to relax back into the warm body beside him.</p><p>They’d shifted in the night, Mickey wiggling back or Ian wiggling forward, and while they aren’t spooning, they would be if Ian would only toss his arm over Mickey’s middle.</p><p>They’re close enough that Ian need only bend down his head to kiss the back of Mickey’s neck. He considers it, even, but he doesn’t, instead simply settling into the warmth, into the rhythmic <i>shoosh</i>es of Mickey’s breaths and the rise and fall of his body.</p><p>Blindly, he reaches out and grabs his phone off the nightstand, then twists onto his back to check social media.</p><p>He’s gained another 97 followers overnight, bringing his grand total to 956 followers, which feels ridiculous as Ian doubts he’s <i>met</i> that many people in his life.</p><p>He’s been tagged in several more screenshots, but he doesn’t bother reading the comments on them, and instead checks his message requests. They’re up to 62 by now, and he should probably mass delete them.</p><p>He taps open a few and finds they’re mostly questions: <i>Are you friends with Mickey?</i> and comments: <i>loved you on the stream!! hope to see more of you soon</i> 💖</p><p>After his foray into Instagram for the morning, he considers checking Twitter again. Before he can open up the app, however, Mickey starts moving around.</p><p>He turns over, facing Ian, and murmurs, “Will you fuckin’ get off social media?”</p><p>Ian’s about to make a joking comment about his newfound fame when Mickey grabs his phone from him and shoves it under his pillow.</p><p>“Are you serious?” he asks, making no attempt to get it back because yeah, he probably should <i>fuckin’ get off social media.</i></p><p>“As a heart attack. Now shut up.”</p><p>Mickey closes his eyes again and, still facing Ian, snuggles down into the blankets to go back to sleep. Dick. </p><p>Ian, figuring he should go ahead and get up, climbs out of bed.</p><p>He takes his meds, grabs a shower, and gets dressed.</p><p>By the time he’s pulling on his sneakers, Mickey’s just starting to wake again, making mumbling, unintelligible noises.</p><p>“Hey,” Ian says, finishing tying his Nikes and moving over to where Mickey’s lying. “Gimme my phone.”</p><p>Mickey doesn’t say anything and, instead, appears to snuggle more deeply into the pillow.</p><p>“Hey.”</p><p>“Shut up,” Mickey says, eyes cracking open just a fraction in order to check the time. 9:51.</p><p>“I was gonna head out, I guess,” Ian says, crossing his arms over his chest.</p><p>That wakes Mickey up. He twists onto his back and stretches, yawning obnoxiously loudly. “You gotta go to work or somethin’?” he asks in a sleep-grumbly voice.</p><p>Ian crawls onto the bed with him and sits cross-legged in the space he’d vacated earlier. “Tonight.”</p><p>“Then just like fuckin’ stay ‘til we leave or whatever. Check out’s in an hour.”</p><p>Something about that makes Ian feel like he’s floating away. He scoots backward, leaning into the headboard, and watches Mickey, who reaches under his pillow and pulls out Ian’s phone.</p><p>Mickey taps the screen to wake it up and scans the notifications. He can’t actually read them without facial recognition, but it’s enough to see that Ian’s phone is basically being blown up with them.</p><p>“Don’t read that shit,” Mickey says, handing the phone over. “Don’t follow anybody. Don’t reply to DMs. Only reply to comments if it ain’t weird shit.”</p><p>“Noted.” Ian opens up Instagram and shows Mickey his follower count. “Should I make a Close Friends list?” he asks, still not even sure what it <i>is</i>.</p><p>Mickey shrugs. “You don’t post stories.”</p><p>“How do you know?”</p><p>“Fuck off.” He sounds sleepy and sweet, and Ian wants nothing more than to lean down and kiss his mouth.</p><p>“If I posted stories, would you watch them?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Liar.”</p><p>Mickey snorts and rolls back onto his side, and the movement brings him close enough to Ian that his entire front is pressed up against the side of Ian’s leg. There are <i>feet</i> of space behind him in bed, and the two of them aren’t engaging in anything even remotely sexual. Yet Mickey’s still chosen to be close.</p><p>Ian, feeling brave, reaches a hand down and brushes his fingers through Mickey’s sleep-ruffled hair, just once.</p><p>They rest there quietly for several minutes until Mickey lifts up, checks the alarm clock again, and groans. He sits up and climbs out of bed.</p><p>While he showers and gets dressed, Ian watches <i>The Price is Right</i>. Mo texts him at about 10:30 with the three pictures she’d posted to her story the night before, plus the one she’d taken of him while on their walk through the historic district.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Mo (10:32 AM):</b> I thought you might like to have these. ♥️ Call Mickey a slow poke and tell him I’m already at reception.</p><p><b>Ian (10:32 AM):</b> He’s in the bathroom, I’ll let him know 😜</p><p>------------------------</p><p>“Mo called you a ‘slow poke,’” he says in greeting to Mickey, who leaves the bathroom five minutes later dressed in the same red underwear he’d been wearing at their hookup in January and that Ian thinks look really fucking cute on him.</p><p>Mickey scoffs and flips off the air. “Tell her I called her an ‘annoying cunt.’”</p><p>“<i>Mickey</i>.” Ian laughs and watches as Mickey pulls on his same outfit from the morning before--the jeans and paint-splatter sweatshirt.</p><p>Mickey shrugs like it’s no big deal, but when he turns back to his suitcase to grab a pair of socks, Ian sees a smile on his mouth.</p><p>Fifteen minutes later, just under the wire, the two of them head downstairs to the lobby. Mickey’d pulled on his black beanie with a tiny sign of the horns embroidered along the front fold, and in his coat and carrying his laptop bag and suitcase over his shoulders, he looks like any other Chicago tourist leaving the hotel after Valentine’s Day weekend.</p><p>Mo’s sitting on one of the couches, reading a book on her iPad, and when she spots the two of them, she stands and picks up her own Coach bag.</p><p>“I’ve ordered two Ubers,” she announces as the three of them walk toward the exit. “Should be arriving shortly. Ian, you’re looking for a silver Lexus. Mickey, we’re looking for a black Audi.”</p><p>It’s cold as shit outside, the sky overcast and the wind like being pelted with icicles. Ian pulls his backpack on properly and huddles down in his coat, zipping it as far up under his chin as it’ll go.</p><p>“It was good to get to know you better,” Mo comments while they wait, reaching out and touching Ian’s shoulder. “I’ll try to keep this one in line ‘til next time.” She nods toward Mickey, who’s smoking a cigarette with his foot propped up carelessly on a stone planter box.</p><p>
  <i>‘til next time.</i>
</p><p>Ian nods, a smile creeping onto his lips. The wind whips past then, rustling his hair and sending him into a full-body shiver. He stomps his feet, trying to warm up.</p><p>And it’s in that moment that Mickey comes over, cigarette pinched between his lips and a bit of ash dropping off the end. In one swift motion, he pulls off his beanie and slides it onto Ian’s head.</p><p>It’s warm inside from Mickey’s body heat, and Ian reaches up and touches it, meaning to refuse, to tell Mickey he should wear it, it’s his, he’s fine.</p><p>“Will you just wear the fuckin’ hat?” Mickey asks, bonking him on the head, and Ian looks up at him and thinks that this is his favorite thing Mickey’s ever done. </p><p>His stomach <i>aches</i> for him.</p><p>“Thanks,” he murmurs, cheeks stinging with a flush. Mickey nods, motioning behind him.</p><p>His Uber’s here, an unnecessary silver Lexus when he could’ve easily taken the L.</p><p>“See ya,” Mickey says, giving him another head bonk, and Ian rolls his eyes at him and kicks his shin playfully.</p><p>He says goodbye to Mo, then again to Mickey, feeling awkward about it sort of, like he should <i>hug him</i> or something, though he knows Mickey’d probably hate that. </p><p>And then he climbs into the Uber.</p><p>As the driver pulls away, Mickey flips him off, and Ian can’t help but bite back a grin, feeling like something has shifted. Something has changed.</p><p>He texts Mickey an entire row of middle-finger emojis and then tugs his beanie down over his ears just because, just because he can.</p><p>It’s just a beanie. Just a mass-produced hat with a dumb embroidered hand symbol on the front. But it’s still warm with Mickey’s heat, and Ian bets that if he were to take it off, it would smell like him, like his shampoo and his sweat and all the little things Ian likes so much about him.</p><p>His phone buzzes.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Mickey (11:03 AM):</b> don’t lose my hat or i’ll kill you</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Ian smiles, loving more than anything the fact that seeing each other again is a given. He’ll see Mo <i>next time</i>. He can’t lose Mickey’s hat until he can return it to him <i>next time</i>.</p><p>He blows out a breath and tries to sort out the twisting in his stomach that he knows must be butterflies.</p><p><i>Don’t worry</i>, he texts. <i>I’ll treasure it until I see you again.</i> 😏</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Mickey (11:04 AM):</b> dumbass</p><p><b>Ian (11:04 AM):</b> 😎</p><p>------------------------</p><p><i>Fuck</i>, he’s in trouble.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Some fun facts for Chapter 7:<br/>-Title comes from "Mint Car" by The Cure</p><p>-<b>adelethelibertini</b> made <a href="https://adelethelibertini.tumblr.com/post/644866586108411904/">the most precious artwork</a> of lil Mickey. Look at him! 😭</p><p>-This Mandy is somehow an unintentional mixture between Jane Levy Mandy and Emma Greenwell Mandy. When I'm writing her, 1/2 the time I'm picturing Jane, half the time I'm picturing Emma. I really don't know.</p><p>-The Lorde song is for the anon(s) who sent me Tumblr messages. Yes, Mickey listens to Lorde. 😊</p><p>-The game Mickey plays, <i>Dust to Dust</i>, is inspired by <i>Visage</i> in its overall structure: broken into chapters with a central spirit in each one. <i>Visage</i> is the scariest game I've ever played and I highly recommend it.</p><p>-The room with the window is actually there on the fourth floor of the hotel. It's a rental space, and people often have wedding receptions there.</p><p>-This chapter marks the beginning of what feels like a Part 2 in the story. I can't wait to continue this journey!</p><p>-Click <a href="https://gallavichy.tumblr.com/post/634892463411200000/click-here-to-view-the-cooperative">here</a> for the fic playlist, which is updated for each chapter.</p><p> </p><p>Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed.</p><p>♥️ Gray</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. A Little Bit Closer</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>He’s going to LA. He’s going to fly in a <i>plane</i>. He’s going to see Mickey every day for five days in a row.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A couple things: 1) This is the longest thing I have ever written all at once, and the only reason it's as long as it is is because it feels like a complete unit and I didn't want to cut it. I will never be writing anything this long ever again, so don't get used to it lmao, 2) Buckle up. It's a big one. I hope you enjoy. ♥️</p><p><b>Content Warnings for Chapter 8:</b> discussions of mental health issues; brief allusions to suicidal ideation and rape (in references to Ian's past experiences while manic); some descriptions of paranormal scenes in games <i>but</i> they aren't as graphic as those in the previous chapter and are less scary overall.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Ian wakes on Tuesday morning to the amazed voice of the ten-year-old currently resting a knee on the foot of his bed.</p><p>“<i>Ian</i>. Did you know you’re on MICK MILK’s YouTube channel?”</p><p>It’s sweet in its naivety--as if Ian could’ve possibly been unaware that he’d participated in Mickey’s Valentine’s Day stream two days prior. He smiles into his pillow and stretches.</p><p>“Um, yeah,” he murmurs, voice sleep-grumbly. “I did a thing with him Sunday.”</p><p>“And you didn’t tell me?”</p><p>Ian sits up, and Liam climbs onto the bed with him, scooting against the wall and criss-crossing his legs. He’s holding his phone, and on it is a video entitled <b>ATMOSPHERIC HORROR AT ITS FINEST / Dust to Dust Pt 1 (Twitch VOD)</b>. It’s paused on a shot of Ian gripping the PS5 controller and wearing an expression of frustration. </p><p>He feels the tips of his ears warm. He’d kept it a secret but not necessarily on purpose. It’s just that the only family member who <i>really</i> cares or understands the full capacity of Mickey’s job and the implications of Ian’s involvement in that job is Liam, and well, <i>Just got back from a full weekend of hooking up with the YouTuber you idolize and hey, by the way, I made an appearance on his Twitch stream</i> felt a little too bizarre to work into casual conversation with a child.</p><p>Plus, he simply isn’t used to spilling his guts to his family. He never has. Maybe it’s a middle child thing, but somewhere over the past almost twenty years of his existence, he’s gotten accustomed to keeping a lot to himself. Because he had to. Because he wanted to. Because everybody else had their own shit going on and didn’t need to worry about his.</p><p>He scratches the back of his neck and eyes Liam, who’s got his brows raised at him.</p><p>“Sorry,” he says, apologetic. “It was kind of a spur-of-the-moment thing.”</p><p>“But you’re basically famous now.”</p><p>“I’m not famous.”</p><p>Liam shrugs, and Ian watches him purse his lips like he’s thinking a complicated thought before asking, resigned, “Well, will you at least tell me what it was like?”</p><p>He wants to know everything, and Ian indulges him for twenty minutes, telling him about Mickey, gameplay, and the process of streaming. He answers questions about <i>Dust to Dust</i>, about whether Mickey <i>really</i> doesn’t react to jump scares, and he doesn’t deny it when Liam asks him if he and Mickey are <i>real-life friends now</i>.</p><p>“Yeah,” he confirms, pulling away his star-print blanket and shifting to get out of bed. “He’s, y’know. A good guy.”</p><p>“You gotta invite him over next time he’s in town. I’ve been practicing <i>Mortal Kombat</i>.”</p><p>Before standing, Ian reaches over and rubs at his brother’s head. “I’ll let him know, bud. He might be afraid you’ll kick his ass, though.”</p><p>Liam smirks confidently. “Good.”</p><p>Before he hits the shower, Ian grabs his phone to text Mickey. It’s early in LA--just past seven--but he figures it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world for Mickey to wake up to an <i>FYI: my brother just officially challenged you to Mortal Kombat</i> text.</p><p>He loses his train of thought, though, when he wakes his phone and sees that his Instagram is blowing up again. The lock screen is filled with notification banners about new followers, new message requests, new likes and comments, no doubt caused by Mickey having posted the Twitch VOD to YouTube the night before.</p><p>Since Sunday, he’s gained nearly 400 Instagram followers, putting his total at just under 1,200. The likes on all his photos are steadily rising, his most recent post--a shot Mandy had taken of him at their Canaryville rooftop hangout spot--has over 500 likes, many of them from people who don’t even follow him. The comments themselves are littered with <i>i am looking respectfully</i> and 🔥🔥🔥 and <i>Enjoyed seeing you in Micks most recent vid, your such a fun addition. Hope to see you again!</i> 😄</p><p>While once he had a grand total of seven tagged photos--all from family members--he is now gaining about four a day, the majority of them edits of screencaps from the stream or fancams to pop songs with the occasional repost of his or Mickey’s awkwardly-posed contest pictures from back in July.</p><p>Strangely, he’s also getting comments and DM requests from sketchy-looking streetwear brands, unverified people who claim to be YouTubers, and unknown-to-him personal grooming lines who mention things like <i>affiliate codes</i> and assert they’re willing to pay him money for sponsored posts.</p><p>He’s seen Mickey do a few of those before, mostly for well-known gaming or music gear.</p><p>After skimming his most recent comment from a brand called <b>Beard Balm</b>, which is sort of hilarious as it takes him three full days to get visible stubble going, Ian decides to change the subject of his text to Mickey.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (9:24 AM):</b> So my rising stardom is getting me comments and DMs from brands and shit, what should I do? 😎</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Mickey doesn’t reply until Ian is showered, dressed, and pouring himself a bowl of off-brand Fruit Loops in the kitchen.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Mickey (10:18 AM):</b> ignore that shit</p><p><b>Mickey (10:18 AM):</b> unless they’re verified or whatever but even then you gotta be careful, most of them are minor brands lookin for promo wherever they can get it and you won’t make a dime</p><p><b>Ian (10:19 AM):</b> Cool</p><p>------------------------</p><p>He pours milk over his Fruit-Flavored O’s. Considers.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (10:20 AM):</b> Good morning btw.</p><p><b>Mickey (10:20 AM):</b> hey</p><p><b>Ian (10:21 AM):</b> FYI: haven’t lost or otherwise destroyed your beanie</p><p>------------------------</p><p>In fact, he wore it all day Monday until he went to work, and even then he only took it off after he entered Shenanigan’s. It makes him feel like a dumb kid wearing his middle school boyfriend’s hoodie, except, well, Mickey isn’t his boyfriend. </p><p>All the same, it smells like Mickey’s slightly perfumy shampoo, and the fold that rests against Ian’s forehead holds the gentle tang of Mickey’s skin--the salt of sweat, the imprint of human warmth. It makes Ian feel good to wear, like he’s important to somebody, like somebody cared enough to let him borrow an item so personal.</p><p>Maybe he’s a pussy for feeling that way. Whatever.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Mickey (10:21 AM):</b> good cuz it’s limited edition</p><p><b>Ian (10:21 AM):</b> Limited edition, huh? </p><p><b>Ian (10:21 AM):</b> Well frankly I’m honored you let me wear it 😏</p><p><b>Ian (10:22 AM):</b> I mean the sophistication of the 🤘 embroidery is unparalleled  </p><p><b>Ian (10:22 AM):</b> Gucci, Prada who?</p><p><b>Mickey (10:23 AM):</b> you done?</p><p><b>Ian (10:23 AM):</b> 😎</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Ian reaches for a spoon and takes a huge bite of cereal that he struggles to chew, especially around a smile.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (10:24 AM):</b> Also my brother wants to kick your ass at Mortal Kombat</p><p><b>Mickey (10:24 AM):</b> jfc, what’s up with you gallaghers thinkin you can kick my ass at shit</p><p><b>Ian (10:24 AM):</b> We’re a buncha scrappy fuckers, what can I say</p><p><b>Mickey (10:25 AM):</b> whatever. tell liam i said to bring it.</p><p><b>Ian (10:25 AM):</b> He’s obsessed with you</p><p><b>Mickey (10:25 AM):</b> must run in the family</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Ian snorts. Okay, Mickey. </p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (10:26 AM):</b> Tbh I think Debbie, Carl, and Fiona don’t really give a fuck, no offense 😬</p><p><b>Ian (10:26 AM):</b> But ok, maybe Lip’s a little crazy about you 🤔 Not sure who else you could be talking about…</p><p><b>Mickey (10:26 AM):</b> maybe the self proclaimed #1 mickey stan</p><p><b>Ian (10:27 AM):</b> Nah see, that was before I got famous</p><p><b>Ian (10:27 AM):</b> And before I learned I’m the best dick you ever had</p><p><b>Ian (10:27 AM):</b> It all went to my head and now you’re just some guy I bang sometimes 😜 </p><p><b>Mickey (10:28 AM):</b> yeah yeah, fuck you</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Ian munches at his cereal and thinks about Mickey in LA. It’s just about 8:30 there. Maybe Mickey’s lying in his bed in some huge, luxurious house. Maybe he’s got a cook who’s going to bring him banana pancakes and bacon.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (10:29 AM):</b> Hey</p><p>------------------------</p><p>he texts, chewing.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Mickey (10:29 AM):</b> you and your fuckin heys</p><p><b>Ian (10:30 AM):</b> So what are you doing today?</p><p>------------------------</p><p>It’s the first conversation they’ve ever had via text--at least the first one that lasted more than 3-5 minutes and involved more than a quick exchange about a singular subject.</p><p>Ian feels like pressing his luck. He feels like keeping it going.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Mickey (10:30 AM):</b> editing this morning, recording later</p><p><b>Ian (10:30 AM):</b> Cool</p><p>------------------------</p><p>He bites his lip.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Mickey (10:31 AM):</b> you?</p><p><b>Ian (10:31 AM):</b> Nothing much. Working tonight 🍀</p><p><b>Mickey (10:31 AM):</b> cool</p><p>------------------------</p><p>So much for trying. Ian cringes at the awkwardness and then finishes up his cereal. He picks up his bowl, walks it two steps toward the sink, but then, last second, grabs the cereal box instead, pours himself another serving, and splashes in some milk.</p><p>And it’s just as he’s leaning against the counter, bringing the spoon to his mouth, when he receives another text.</p><p>It’s a screenshot of a comment thread on the <i>Dust to Dust</i> video on YouTube.</p><p>
  <span class="font-small"><b>Ellis Petrov</b><br/>
ok but ian is actually so, so cute. please bring him back. 😍</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">    <b>Sydney</b><br/>
    ♥️ The part with Ian was my absolute favorite. Super entertaining! I agree! Bring him back! </span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">    <b>MADI</b><br/>
    you 2 are like night and day, pls the dynamic is amazing 👏👏</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">    <b>The Magic Conch</b><br/>
    genuinely enjoyable :) i laughed out loud several times.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">    <b>mizza ponster</b><br/>
    comedy kings 👑👑</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">    <b>Hazel N.</b><br/>
    Would u consider doing more stuff w/ him? His awkwardness is presh 💕💕💕</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">    <b>Nitrous Flame</b><br/>
    👎👎👎 he sucks</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">    <b>moon juice</b><br/>
    he has great energy….would watch more stuff with him….anybody know where i can find him….does he have a channel???</span>
</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Mickey (10:38 AM):</b> somebody’s popular</p><p><b>Ian (10:38 AM):</b> Good to know I have great energy</p><p><b>Ian (10:38 AM):</b> And that I’m so, so cute</p><p><b>Mickey (10:38 AM):</b> think your awkwardness is your main appeal, man</p><p><b>Ian (10:39 AM):</b> Thanks 😞</p><p><b>Mickey (10:39 AM):</b> hey, at least hazel thinks it’s “presh” </p><p><b>Ian (10:39 AM):</b> 🤮🤮🤮</p><p><b>Mickey (10:40 AM):</b> still gotta win over nitrous</p><p><b>Ian (10:40 AM):</b> 👎👎👎 Nitrous sucks</p><p><b>Mickey (10:40 AM):</b> 💀</p><p>------------------------</p><p>With every text, Ian feels something warm in his chest--something that feels strangely like hope.</p><p>---<br/>
---</p><p>There are the admittedly pleasant complimentary comments on his Instagram posts, the affiliate requests, and the occasional troll. But there are also the comments that make Ian bite his lip.</p><p>They’re few and far between, but there’s enough of them and they carry such a degree of boldness that Ian can’t help but pause over each one, considering whether he should delete it.</p><p><b>spacerat2058:</b> are u dating @nightmarehour</p><p><b>elizabeth.acres014:</b> Is it weird that I want you to date Mick Milk ?? @nightmarehour LOL Don’t actually know if he’s gay or not tho… 😂</p><p><b>mickmilksource:</b> Hello! Sorry if this is strange but I was wondering if you could tell me if you are in a romantic relationship with @nightmarehour? Or if not what your relationship is? I noticed you were a winner of the SneakAttack contest last year. Did you and Mick become friends (or more) from that? Just curious. Have a nice day! 💖</p><p>Ian doubts very seriously that Mickey checks the comments he’s been tagged in, as statistically, there has to be hundreds per day, if not more. But he also knows that it’s completely possible that he’s seeing each and every one of them.</p><p>After recalling Mickey’s Instagram search history and the fact that he apparently at least occasionally checks Ian’s account, he also knows that it’s completely possible that Mickey, out of sheer curiosity regarding his fans’ reception of Ian, has been reading the comments on his posts.</p><p>It’s awkward. Ian doesn’t really know what to do about it. He <i>could</i> technically delete them, but he wonders if the deletion would make things all the more suspicious to the fans. So he doesn’t. He leaves them there, and he lets Mickey think whatever he wants to think, and he tries to put them out of his mind.</p><p>There’s not <i>that</i> many, after all.</p><p>It does suck, though, that Mandy’s apparently receiving DMs about him, too. </p><p>It’s Thursday, and he’s invited her over to the Gallagher house for the first time. In lieu of reading the assigned book for her literature class, she wants to watch the movie version of <i>The Age of Innocence</i>, and Hunter’s out of town.</p><p>Ian didn’t ask why she couldn’t watch it at home--figuring he already knew the answer--and instead, without a second thought, he suggested they watch the blu-ray on his PS5.</p><p>It’s strange having her there, another Milkovich among the Gallagher detritus--using their messy bathroom, settling into the cushions of their stained couch, eating their stale Cheetos and sipping at an Old Style from their fridge. Like her brother, Mandy doesn’t comment on the state of the house and doesn’t even flinch when there’s the sound of a distant gunshot. But unlike Mickey, she has seemingly zero reservations about making herself at home, dropping down on the couch like she owns the place and popping open the DVD she’d checked out from the UIC library.</p><p>The two of them watch the movie, pausing intermittently to refill their snack bowl and get more drinks, and when it’s over, Ian helps Mandy write a book report outline, using his phone to cross-reference the film with SparkNotes to make sure she doesn’t bring up events that were only in the movie. </p><p>Once done, Ian orders a pizza, and while waiting for delivery, they head up to his room to lounge on his bed, listen to <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b6WNdcZpDhQ">Billie Eilish</a>, and smoke a joint Mandy had in her bra.</p><p>“Gross, I’m smokin’ your titty sweat,” Ian complains lightly, taking a short puff that ends with a groan and a smoky cough when Mandy punches his shoulder.</p><p>“You should be so lucky.”</p><p>“Uh huh.”</p><p>They smoke in silence for a while, breeze from the open window rattling the Go Army! posters above Ian’s bed. Mandy giggles at nothing when she gets a little weed in her, knocking her Docs together like Dorothy--<i>there’s no place like home</i>--and occasionally leaning over to collide with Ian’s side in an obnoxious bump that sends him off-kilter and makes him giggle back at her.</p><p>“Hey,” she says, wiggling around until she can pull her phone out of her back pocket. “You wanna see somethin’ funny?’</p><p>Ian rolls the back of his head against the wall, turning his face toward her in acknowledgement. </p><p>After fiddling with her phone for a minute, she hands it over. It’s open to her Instagram DMs.</p><p>“Top three,” she says, tapping a chipped black nail against the screen.</p><p>It’s three messages from MICK MILK fans, and alarmingly, Mandy’s accepted and replied to them, all with a variation of the same terse response.</p><p><i>Mandy, hi! &lt;3 Hope your doing good. I was wondering if you could clear up the situation with your brother and Ian? If not, that’s ok too! xoxo</i><br/>
     it’s none of ur business, so no. sorry.</p><p><i>hey who is ian, r u dating</i><br/>
     it’s none of ur business. sorry.</p><p><i>Hey Mandy, I noticed that Mickey took Ian to his livestream on Valentine’s Day. I don’t want to pry and I swear i won’t tell anyone whatever you decide to share with me but I was curious if he and Mick might be seeing each other. They would make a rlly cute couple I think.</i> 😊💚<br/>
     it’s none of ur business. sorry.</p><p>“Shit, Mandy,” Ian grumbles. “This is how the fuckin’ rumor mill starts. ‘None of your business’ is basically confirmation.”</p><p>“Confirmation of what?” She’s grinning at him, bouncing her brows.</p><p>Ian’s belly twists. “Nothing.” He steals the joint from her fingers. Takes a puff. “Your brother’s gonna be pissed.”</p><p>“So? His fans are annoying. He doesn’t do enough to shut them up sometimes.”</p><p>Mandy takes back the joint and, before bringing it to her lips, huffs a breathy laugh out her nose.</p><p>Ian eyes her. “What?”</p><p>“They’re not <i>wrong</i>, though.”</p><p>“They’re really fuckin’ wrong. We’re not dating.”</p><p>There’s that laugh again, and this time it’s smoky. Mandy leans to the side, resting her head on Ian’s shoulder. She smells sweet from her cotton candy perfume and skunky from the weed. Her dangly, homemade guitar pick earring tickles Ian’s neck.</p><p>“Okay, but you like him.”</p><p>She nuzzles in, and what the hell, Ian tilts his own head against hers, their temples touching. </p><p>And maybe it’s the weed, maybe it’s the closeness, maybe it’s a lot of things.</p><p>He takes a deep breath.</p><p>“Yeah,” he admits, voice a whisper. “I do.”</p><p>“<i>Awww</i>.”</p><p>“Ugh.”</p><p>Mandy holds the joint in front of Ian’s mouth, and he leans in and pinches it from her fingers with his lips. </p><p>“Whatever,” he says after a drag, taking it from his mouth with his thumb and forefinger. “You can’t tell him or I’ll never speak to you again.”</p><p>“Mick-ey and I-an sittin’ in a tree.”</p><p>Ian bumps her. Scoffs. “Yeah, right.”</p><p><i>Actually</i>, yeah, right. He can’t imagine, can he? K-I-S-S-I-N-G. He takes one last puff off the joint and hands it back to Mandy before moving away from her, suddenly claustrophobic. </p><p>She straightens, gives him a look like she wants to say something.</p><p>And it’s then that the doorbell rings. Thank God.</p><p>Ian climbs off the bed and moves quickly over to the window, tugging at his shirt in an effort to air out a little of the weed smell before he makes his way downstairs to get the pizza.</p><p>---</p><p>He needs to be a little more careful, he thinks, the knowledge that Mandy knows about his feelings toward her brother settling like ice in his belly when she leaves a couple hours later. </p><p>She’s his best friend--a fast best friend, the two of them only having been hanging out for a month and a half and yet already hugging and laying all over each other and sharing food, drinks, and secrets. But still, her filter isn’t the best, and if Ian’s come to know anything about her, it’s that she likes putting things in their place--people, situations, relationships. She doesn’t mettle, necessarily, but she’s truthful in a way she sometimes shouldn’t be.</p><p>
  <i>it’s none of ur business. sorry.</i>
</p><p>Ian cringes throughout his shift at Shenanigan’s that night, imagining her texting Mickey about him. Something like</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Mandy:</b> hey butthead, guess what?</p><p><b>Mickey:</b> bitch, what</p><p><b>Mandy:</b> ian has a crush on u and if u break his heart i’ll kill u 💛💛💛</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Fuck. He agonizes over it for a good twenty-four hours, panicking inwardly every time his phone chimes with a text, thinking it’s Mickey blowing him off or worse yet, Mandy letting him know she’s <i>soooooo sorry</i> and that he shouldn’t hate her, but <i>omg</i> she <i>had to tell mick, sorry sorry sorry, love u!!!!</i> leaving him living in a horrific state of uncertainty.</p><p>It doesn’t happen, though. Mandy never mentions it again, Mickey just texts him a screenshot of a comment on the <i>Dust to Dust</i> video,</p><p>
  <span class="font-small"><b>Gregory W.</b><br/>
Ed Sheeran?!</span>
</p><p>and life goes on as normal. </p><p>That doesn’t mean Ian, himself, is able to shut up about it, though, his nerves still getting the best of him. </p><p>Lip comes home for the weekend on Friday night, and after Ian gets home from work at 1 AM, the two of them sit at the table in the darkened kitchen and share a carton of butter pecan, digging in together with two spoons like they used to when they were younger teens, getting high, raiding the fridge for junk food, and talking about everything and nothing.</p><p>In all fairness, it’s Lip who brings up Mickey, though it’s Ian who steers the conversation in the direction he doesn’t necessarily want it to go.</p><p>“Still seein’ the YouTuber?” Lip asks amusedly, scooping out a spoonful of ice cream.</p><p>Ian rolls his eyes at him because it sounds dumb, doesn’t it? Fucking YouTuber.</p><p>“Yeah, I’m still seein’ Mickey,” he replies before licking the back of his own spoon. “I mean. Not like, <i>seein</i>’-seein’, but y’know. Hookin’ up with him.”</p><p>“Sex any good? He got like, special gamer skills or some shit? Ultra...dexterous fingers or whatever?”</p><p>“<i>Jesus Christ</i>, Lip.”</p><p>The two of them crack up, and Ian kicks his brother under the table. He’s making fun of him. In that moment, Ian’s brain jumps to a future in which Lip forever and ever lightheartedly gives Mickey shit about his career.</p><p>Forever and ever. Fuck, what’s wrong with him?</p><p>Ian digs his spoon into the carton and takes a massive bite of ice cream to keep his mouth from running and to hopefully give himself a much-needed brainfreeze. </p><p>Lip raises an eyebrow at him.</p><p>Yeah, yeah, whatever. Ian swallows a bit of the ice cream and, after a moment, murmurs, “The sex is fucking fantastic.”</p><p>“This like a long-term thing, or…?”</p><p>Ian lets the rest of the mouthful melt on his tongue, giving him time to pause. He swallows. Shrugs. “I dunno.”</p><p>“I mean, you two just like, <i>fucking</i>, or are you actually into this guy?”</p><p>This is the moment Ian could deny it the way he should’ve denied it to Mandy. He scoops out another spoonful of ice cream but doesn’t take a bite, just stares down at it. Watches it start to melt, a drip winding its way off the top of the mound and toward the edge of the spoon, threatening to drip off onto the table.</p><p>But well, maybe he should’ve denied it to Mandy, Mickey’s fucking <i>little sister</i>, but this is Lip, his brother, his forever best friend.</p><p>“I’m into him,” he says finally before plugging his mouth with the spoon, catching the drip just before it falls.</p><p>He waits until he’s finished chewing the pecans and has swallowed before elaborating.</p><p>“I’m into <i>him</i>. Not sure how he feels about me. We’re just kinda having sex and hangin’ out in hotel rooms. He brought me onto his livestream last Sunday, so I’m like, on his YouTube channel now, I guess.”</p><p>“<i>Seriously</i>?” Lip looks surprised. He takes the carton and scrapes out one of the last spoonfuls from the bottom. “Sounds kinda serious, man.”</p><p>“What is?”</p><p>“He’s got millions of subscribers.”</p><p>Ian shrugs. Yeah. He does. He gets up from the table, walks his spoon to the sink, then takes two beers from the fridge.</p><p>He thinks of something then, speaking of serious. Lip’s finishing off the ice cream and then getting up to trash the carton, and suddenly, Ian’s curious. He’s <i>embarrassed</i> even, and here he goes going all uncharacteristically awkward about sex again.</p><p>“Hey, Lip?”</p><p>Lip makes a sound of acknowledgment, and when they meet back at the table, he takes the opened beer Ian offers him.</p><p>“Do you ever fuck your girls without a condom?”</p><p>It <i>shouldn’t</i> be an awkward conversation. When they were kids, Lip was the person who told him all about sex to begin with, who showed him pictures from porno mags and explained how to use them to make himself feel good.</p><p>But there’s something about the fact that Ian’s working up to talk about Mickey here--a real life situation with a real life guy he likes--that makes him feel silly and nervous. He takes a careful drink of his beer and returns to his seat at the table.</p><p>Lip, for his part, seems unfazed. He shrugs like Ian’s just asked him whether he prefers chocolate or vanilla ice cream. </p><p>“Sometimes, yeah,” he says, voice a murmur. “Feels better. Most girls are on the pill these days.”</p><p>Ian nods. Takes another sip of beer.</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>He hem-haws for a moment, but then after a deep breath, is out with it. “You ever been tested?”</p><p>Lip <i>hm</i>s and shrugs in the negative. “No.” He eyes Ian, who looks away. “You got something?”</p><p>“No.” Ian purses his lips and wanders his eyes around the kitchen. “I mean, I don’t think. Just never been tested before is all.”</p><p>“You fuck guys without rubbers?”</p><p>“Used to sometimes, I guess. Not anymore. Wasn’t really thinking about STDs and shit, y’know. Sorta felt like, <i>not like I can get ‘em pregnant, so what’s the point?</i>”</p><p>Lip takes a swig of his own beer, holds it in his mouth for a moment, then swallows heavily, watching Ian all the while. Figuring him out. “And now you wanna raw-dog Mickey, but you don’t wanna give him anything.”</p><p>Ian grins at the term. Scoffs. “Yeah?” He shrugs. “I mean. <i>He</i> wanted to do it first. Basically put my dick a few inches inside him before I stopped it.”</p><p>Lip grimaces as if to say <i>I’m sincerely trying to be okay with the gay sex shit</i>. It morphs into a chuckle, and Ian playfully shoves his shoulder.</p><p>They allow themselves to settle for a moment before Ian finally adds, “So I guess I might wanna get tested or whatever. I dunno.”</p><p>“So you guys are gonna have unprotected sex, he put you in one of his videos, and you’ve been hookin’ up for like, half a year.”</p><p>“Yeah. Shit.”</p><p>Lip gives him a look that means <i>see?</i>, and Ian shrugs. Yeah, he sees.</p><p>“It’s not like that, though. I mean, I don’t think.”</p><p>“Then figure out what it’s like, then. You brought him to fuckin’ Christmas, man.”</p><p>“I know.”</p><p>Ian fumbles in his pocket, looking for something to do, and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. He taps one out, lights up, and for the next five minutes, he and Lip sit together in mostly silence, drinking and sharing a smoke.</p><p>“Hey,” Lip says finally, face and voice gone all serious. “I’ll go with you to the clinic if you want.”</p><p>Ian raises an eyebrow at him. “Yeah?”</p><p>“Yeah. Just lemme know.”</p><p>---</p><p>He <i>plans</i> to do it--it’s just working up the courage that’s the hard part.</p><p>It’s not that he’s afraid of needles or blood. In theory, he isn’t afraid of testing or medical exams. But when he thinks about the clinic, his brain automatically goes to the months following his diagnosis, sitting in an armchair while the psychiatrist on rotation asks him questions about his meds and his moods and then tells him he’s basically been given a thirty to forty year sentence. When he thinks about testing, he thinks about the initial periodic blood draws to check his meds’ impact on his organ functions.</p><p>When he thinks about potentially <i>having something</i>, he thinks about the aged men that would take him to hotel rooms, thinks about bare skin and <i>I’m clean, I’m clean, just get your big cock in me, Little Red</i>.</p><p>He puts it off. </p><p>---</p><p>The next week, he goes to work, and he hangs out with Mandy, and he texts with Mickey just once, briefly, because someone on Twitter’s made a fancam of him to “Shape of You” and Ian wants to know if the universe hates him.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Mickey (2:41 PM):</b> yes</p><p><b>Ian (2:41 PM):</b> Thanks </p><p><b>Mickey (2:41 AM):</b> welcome </p><p>------------------------</p><p>On the afternoon of the last Friday in February, as he’s getting ready for work and pulling on his <i>Don’t Worry, Beer Happy</i> shirt, his phone rings.</p><p>He doesn’t check the caller ID, figuring it’s Fiona calling to ask him to put on dinner for the kids.</p><p>“Hey,” he answers overly casually, holding the phone to his ear with his shoulder as he fixes his hair in the bathroom mirror, running some gel through it in the same manner Mickey had done that afternoon in the hotel.</p><p>The distinctly English accent stops him in his tracks.</p><p>“Ian! Is this a bad time?”</p><p>Shit. He reaches for a towel, wipes off the excess gel on his hand, and grasps the phone. “Mo, hey! What’s up?”</p><p>There’s a bit of a jumbled greeting, Ian awkwardly talking over her for a second in an effort to appear nonchalantly and yet cheerfully unoccupied. He wanders into his room after asking Mo how she is, and as she tells him and returns the question, he sits down on his bed.</p><p>“I’m good.”</p><p>“Lovely to hear.” There’s a pause, a bit of a scrambly sound as if she’s moving around. “Listen, I don’t want to hold you long. I just phoned with a bit of a question for you. An opportunity.”</p><p>“What’s that?” He’s curious.</p><p>“Would you perhaps be interested in doing a bit of recording next week?”</p><p>Ian leans back against the wall for stability. “Uh, what do you mean?”</p><p>“Well, <i>Mickey</i> wanted me to find out if you’d like to finish <i>Dust to Dust</i> with him for his channel.” The way she says <i>Mickey</i>, so emphatic and pointed, makes it crystal clear to Ian that he’s in the room with her. Ian swallows.</p><p>“We’d take care of all the travel, get you lodging, food. The dates we’re looking at are potentially flying you out Thursday, the fourth of March, recording Friday, Saturday, Sunday, then flying you back home on Monday the eighth. Ideally, Mickey’d like to begin posting to his channel on the game’s release day, Tuesday the ninth.”</p><p>Ian’s stunned. He’s not sure he absorbs all the details, brain too full of a stream of surprised swear words to fully comprehend what’s been proposed to him.</p><p>Holy shit. They’re talking about <i>flying to Los Angeles</i>? Recording with Mickey? Mickey wants more of him on his channel? An entire <i>series</i>?</p><p>Ian can’t believe it. He closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose.</p><p>Mo clears her throat down the line, and it’s then that Ian remembers that he’s gone an awkwardly long time without responding.</p><p>He opens his mouth to speak, but before he can, Mo adds, as if she needs to entice him further, “You will, of course, be paid. We’ll work out the specifics later, but we’re thinking 40% of Mickey’s share of the series earnings.”</p><p>Ian doesn’t know how much money that could possibly be. He blows out a breath. Runs his hand over his mouth. “Uh,” he starts, needing to make a sound before she thinks he’s died. “Shit.”</p><p>“So what’re we thinking? Or do you need some time to consider?”</p><p>“No. I mean, <i>yes</i>, that’d be… Fuck. Yeah, I wanna do it.”</p><p>He closes his eyes, head rolling back and forth against the wall behind him. </p><p>“<i>Brilliant</i>. We can work out the details once I look into the flights. The dates alright?”</p><p>Ian can’t think. He does his best to run through them in his head. Thursday through Monday. He’ll need to take two days off work at Shenanigan’s. Won’t take weekend shifts at Patsy’s. Doable. Fine.</p><p>“Uh, they sound good, I think,” he finally murmurs, tapping his shoes together nervously.</p><p>“Excellent. Well, I’ll phone you again later or shoot you a text once I’ve got more details, Ian.”</p><p>She’s all business. Ian swallows heavily. </p><p>“Cool,” he says, a complete understatement.</p><p>---</p><p>He has to leave for work in half an hour. He spends the first ten minutes after ending the call with Mo staring at his bedroom wall, the absolute most insane amount of adrenaline coursing through his veins and making him feel like his skin is electric.</p><p>Holy fucking fuck. He’s going to LA. He’s going to fly in a fucking <i>plane</i>. He’s going to see Mickey every day for five days in a row.</p><p>More than that, Mickey <i>wants</i> this. Mickey’d <i>asked Mo</i> to set this up.</p><p>He spends the next fifteen minutes down in the kitchen trying to nervously scarf down enough food so that his dinnertime meds don’t give him diarrhea or the shakes. He takes his pills. Says a dazed goodbye to Liam and Debbie, who’re watching TV. Liam’s doing homework at the coffee table. Debbie’s texting. She looks moody about something.</p><p>Ian catches the L, and he arrives at work, and for the next five hours, he waits tables and slings beer and can’t properly concentrate on anything because his life has suddenly gotten very, very fucking exciting.</p><p>---</p><p>When he arrives home, sleepy and ready to collapse, he washes his face, changes into pajamas, and stretches out in bed. He checks his phone. Clears his notifications. Taps over to Mickey’s Instagram account.</p><p>He’s made an uncaptioned story post not five minutes ago of a beer bottle resting on a white table somewhere outdoors, trees just visible in the dark background and the setting lit by lamp glow. </p><p>It’s random. Ian imagines Mickey sitting outside at eleven o’clock LA time, smoking, drinking. Is he alone?</p><p>Ian purses his lips. He thinks about how <i>Mickey wanted him to come to LA</i> and, feeling bold, opens up iMessage.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (1:12 AM):</b> You could’ve asked me yourself you know…  </p><p><b>Mickey (1:13 AM):</b> it’s a business opportunity, that’s mo’s job</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Yeah, well. Ian huffs a breath. </p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Mickey (1:14 AM):</b> plus i didn’t really know if you wanted to do it or whatever</p><p><b>Mickey (1:14 AM):</b> also don’t feel obligated to do it, if you wanna back out cuz its too weird or whatever just lmk, it’s fine</p><p><b>Mickey (1:14 AM):</b> the response was really good with pt 1 so i just thought i’d ask</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Had he been worried Ian would say no? </p><p>Something about that is so unbearably sweet. It sits in Ian’s heart, warm.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (1:15 AM):</b> Pass up the opportunity to fly on a plane for the first time? Not likely ✈✈✈</p><p><b>Mickey (1:15 AM):</b> cool</p><p><b>Mickey (1:15 AM):</b> ok well mo will get you the specifics, i don’t do all that booking shit</p><p><b>Ian (1:16 AM):</b> Sounds good</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Ian rubs his thumb against the side of his phone case, idly, thinking.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (1:16 AM):</b> I’m pretty excited about this honestly. Never been further west than Iowa on a JROTC trip in high school.</p><p><b>Mickey (1:17 AM):</b> fuckin nerd, you were in jrotc?</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Ian grins in the darkness of his bedroom.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (1:17 AM):</b> Says the guy who plays video games for a living...</p><p><b>Mickey (1:17 AM):</b> did you wear a uniform</p><p><b>Ian (1:18 AM):</b> Yes, and? 🖕</p><p><b>Mickey (1:18 AM):</b> nerd</p><p><b>Mickey (1:18 AM):</b> also stop viewing my story</p><p><b>Ian (1:19 AM):</b> Stop making moody story posts? What are you even doing outside right now? It’s February.</p><p><b>Mickey (1:19 AM):</b> it’s like 60 degrees</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Ian’d known it, obviously--he’s not a dumbass--but for some reason, the fact that it’s actually relatively warm year-round in Los Angeles, at least by Chicago standards, never really factored into his mental image of LA Mickey.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (1:20 AM):</b> So do I need to pack summer clothes and shit?</p><p><b>Mickey (1:20 AM):</b> la march is kinda like chicago may</p><p><b>Ian (1:20 AM):</b> Thanks, good to know 👍</p><p>------------------------</p><p>They’re doing this, huh? Ian’s taking a plane to Los Angeles to play a game with Mickey for his wildly successful YouTube channel. Mickey <i>wants</i> to finish the game with him. He’d been nervous about Ian saying no, so he’d gotten Mo to ask.</p><p>Fuck, Ian’s gotta get tested.</p><p>Seeing Mickey five days in a row. Fucking him without a condom five days in a row. Ian sticks his hand down under the covers and runs his palm over himself just briefly, just to touch for a second. He feels like a goddamned horndog, his blood sizzling at the thought of unprotected sex with the guy he likes.</p><p>A <i>tired</i> horndog, that is. He yawns. Wants to sleep. Sorta wants to talk to Mickey for another hour. </p><p>He considers it, even, and is gearing up to send a message that’ll continue the conversation, but well, he’s got a morning shift at Patsy’s in six hours as it is.</p><p>He rubs the heel of his palm over his eyes and, with a resigned sigh, says his goodbyes.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (1:22 AM):</b> It’s late here and I gotta work tomorrow, gonna go 😴</p><p><b>Mickey (1:22 AM):</b> ok, see ya</p><p>------------------------</p><p>After a beat,</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Mickey (1:23 AM):</b> night</p><p><b>Ian (1:23 AM):</b> Night Mickey</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Ian falls asleep that night googling pictures of Los Angeles and wondering what his future holds.</p><p>---<br/>
---</p><p>He talks himself into getting tested on Monday, if only to get it over with before the brunt of the week begins. Lip meets him at the clinic on S. Ashland at ten, and they wait for over an hour to get called back, one at a time.</p><p>The nurse is friendly enough. She asks Ian a thousand questions about his sexual health and history, some he knows the answers to and some he doesn’t. </p><p><i>Have you ever been tested for HIV?</i> No. <i>Do you practice unprotected sex?</i> Not right now, but in the past, yeah. <i>Are you sexually active?</i> Yes. <i>How many sex partners do you have currently?</i> One. <i>How many sex partners have you had total?</i> Uh. Not really sure. <i>Ballpark?</i> Um. <i>More than ten?</i> Yeah.</p><p>It’s endless, and he gets that stupid sex embarrassment again, the tips of his ears growing warm and the skin beneath his eyes burning. She’s a medical professional, he knows. It still upsets him a little to talk about his history with her--especially about what he doesn’t know, about what he’ll never know, his memory hazy from the drugs.</p><p>The test itself is a simple finger-prick, easy as that, and he only has to wait twenty minutes for the nurse to return.</p><p>He’s negative, thank fuck, and he doesn’t realize just how nervous he’d been until he blows out a breath on his way back to the waiting room. His limbs feel limp, stress-relief shaky, like he’s safely back home after evading the cops with Lip, his heart still pounding from the chase.</p><p>It’s not that Ian thought he had anything, necessarily, but there was a very real possibility that he <i>could</i>--that he could’ve picked up something from any one of the <i>more than ten</i> guys he’d fucked when he was seventeen, manic, and plying himself with molly and coke until his heart felt like it was going to explode.</p><p>The thing is, he’s past that part of his life now, survived it even though he still feels the impacts every day, and though he knows that being positive isn’t a death sentence anymore, he thinks it would break his heart if he had to live with one more constant memory of that time in his life.</p><p>He closes his eyes, relieved beyond measure, and relaxes into a stiff chair to wait for Lip.</p><p>He checks his phone a few minutes later, after he’s calmed himself, to find that Mo’s texted him.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Mo (11:28 AM):</b> Good morning, Ian! I’ve got your flight details. Departure from ORD Thursday, 4 March at 5:25 PM, arrival at LAX at 7:51 PM. Sound all right?</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Shit. Here it is. It’s real. Concrete. He’s going to fucking <i>Los Angeles</i>.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (11:44 AM):</b> Great, thanks Mo </p><p><b>Mo (11:47 AM):</b> Perfect. ❤️️ Mickey says you’ve not flown before, so some tips: Arrive at least 2 hours before your departure. Dress comfortably and avoid wearing boots or shoes that require significant unlacing. Don’t purchase anything from the shops. Bring a holdall carry-on so you don’t need to check a bag. Keep it with you at all times. Use the toilet before the flight. </p><p>------------------------</p><p>Ian blows out a breath, nerves returning to him.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (11:48 AM):</b> 👍</p><p><b>Mo (11:49 AM):</b> How would you like to handle lodging?</p><p><b>Mo (11:49 AM):</b> Would you prefer a hotel room, or will you be staying with Mr Grumpy?</p><p>------------------------</p><p>A great question, sure, but one in which Ian shouldn’t really have a say. It’s not as if he can just declare he’s staying four nights in Mickey’s house. He bites his lip. Texts,</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (11:50 AM):</b> Not sure</p><p>------------------------</p><p>He hopes for more guidance in the area, but there’s no immediate response. Ian’s still waiting, in fact, when Lip enters the waiting room.</p><p>He gives Ian a thumbs up. <i>All good.</i> Ian returns it awkwardly. </p><p>They don’t talk about it as they leave the clinic, but Lip puts his arm around Ian’s shoulders as they pause to light cigarettes out on the sidewalk. Gives him a squeeze as he pulls back.</p><p>The brothers loiter for a bit, smoking and wasting time together in silence that feels like comfort, then head to a Mexican joint for enchiladas and nachos--a celebratory lunch.</p><p>Ian tells Lip all about his upcoming trip to LA, and Lip gives him instructions for navigating O’Hare as if his one and only experience flying makes him an expert.</p><p>And they’re just finishing up when Ian’s phone chimes.</p><p>He checks it, expecting it to be Mo with a follow-up to his previous text. Instead, it’s Mickey.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Mickey (1:04 PM):</b> hey, just wondering where you plan to stay in la</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Mo told him to text Ian. There’s no way she didn’t, the timing and subject of the text far too coincidental.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (1:05 PM):</b> Idk. Thoughts?</p><p><b>Mickey (1:06 PM):</b> i was thinkin you’d stay with me if you want</p><p><b>Mickey (1:06 PM):</b> easier i guess, i record at my house so you wouldn’t have to uber back and forth</p><p><b>Mickey (1:07 PM):</b> but mo can get you a hotel instead, whatever you want, lmk</p><p>------------------------</p><p>“That loverboy?” Lip smirks at him around the lip of his drink glass, and Ian flips him off.</p><p>“He just asked me to stay at his house in LA.”</p><p>“Did you tell him you can stick it in him raw, now?”</p><p>“Lip.”</p><p>Lip cracks up, and Ian fumbles for his wallet to pay for lunch.</p><p>Five days, four nights at home with Mickey. Five days, four nights of raw sex. Ian blows out a breath and reaches for his phone.</p><p>Jesus Christ, he’s not going to survive this.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (1:09 PM):</b> I’ll stay with you, that sounds good </p><p><b>Mickey (1:09 PM):</b> cool</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Five minutes later, Mo sends him a winking emoji and a heart.</p><p>---<br/>
---</p><p>Following Mo’s advice, Ian arrives at O’Hare on Thursday at 3:30, and with the help of an attendant, figures out how to print his boarding pass at the kiosk, checks in, gets through security, and makes it to his gate with only a bit of trouble navigating the massive airport, which <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/54e01da25f67919a499e7c5195b9b639/2268ed44b1f32567-d9/s1280x1920/caaf8c3234f4c59d60b9210bfc2cf0cb7c968565.jpg">looks more like a shopping mall</a> to him than what he’d ever imagined an airport to be.</p><p>He’d brought just his old JROTC duffel, and he’d <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/491adf22cd2955ea9d4404ad69023927/9254d1ca68051e5e-e0/s1280x1920/4fc68618619613bd62f0d72d44be7fc920dd0b8f.jpg">dressed</a> in a T-shirt, burgundy hoodie-jacket, jeans, and sneakers. He lounges in one of the chairs at his gate, bag on the floor between his feet, and plays games on his phone until he has to charge it at the charging station.</p><p>Of course, Ian’s flight would have to be delayed. It’s delayed not once but twice, his arrival time in LA jumping from 7:51 to 10:47. It’s almost 8:00 PM in Chicago by the time he’s able to board the flight, finding his seat in <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/99e423591b8cdaca5defb603898c7667/5c2acf2d86fe5d92-21/s1280x1920/4c6bea2b8d7ab3a7b98a67aea35a9fc5defe2a08.jpg">Premium Economy</a> beside a middle-aged woman reading a romance novel.</p><p>Mo’d gotten him a window seat, and he leans against it, snapping a picture of the runway with his phone and sending it to the Gallagher group chat.</p><p>Once the plane starts up, it taxis on the runway for thirty minutes, and by the time it’s finally about to lift off, it’s nearly nine. Ian blows out a breath and rests his head against the seatback, his anxiety ramping up despite his excitement about flying--something he’s wanted to do since he was a little boy playing with toy planes.</p><p>Take-off is like nothing he’s ever experienced--the pressure against his chest pushing him into the seat, the vibration, the loud whirring. He watches out the window with his heart in his throat and limbs adrenaline-shaky as the plane begins to lift away from the runway, as the lights flash, as the darkness in the distance becomes a sparkling city, becomes Chicago, <i>his</i> city, becomes ant-like dots, <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/f36ad266debb5e21f8c083d07b5143e2/0df8354b29f42328-f5/s2048x3072/31f2fe829b139e895251b465c532d70427ab4488.jpg">Christmas lights in the distance</a>.</p><p>From above, the world looks neat, clean, organized. He sees clearly the division of neighborhoods, the bright patches of downtown, the darkness of the outskirts. He takes a picture with his phone, amazed that from above his home is nothing but a splash of light surrounded by the black of night.</p><p>As the plane climbs, he sees less and less, clouds moving in, blanketing the sky in a smoky gray fog illuminated by the navigation lights on the wings. Ian leans back in his seat and relaxes into the feeling of flying.</p><p>---</p><p>Not having expected to be in flight late into the night, Ian finds himself having to figure out his meds situation. He buys a can of ginger ale and a pre-packaged turkey sandwich from the snack tray for eight bucks, then digs out the three little pills he’d shoved in his pocket just in case.</p><p>His neighbor, who’d earlier introduced herself as “Judy” before going back to her book, eyes him as he takes his meds, and he makes a <i>What?</i> face at her and turns back to the window.</p><p>It’s a four hour flight, and he falls asleep at some point, waking only as the pilot comes over the intercom to announce their descent. Ian yawns, stretches as much as he can in the space provided, and takes out his phone to snap more photos to send home.</p><p>He can’t see a lot in the darkness, everything just light and bright, much larger and brighter than Chicago--millions of tiny, golden specs, millions of ants. He sees moving cars on freeways like a child’s toys the lower the plane glides, and then less and less as it descends into the veritable darkness of the airport runway, lit only by a guiding green and yellow glow.</p><p>Once they’ve landed with a jarring jolt, the pilot cheerfully welcomes them to Los Angeles and reports the time and weather. It’s 10:51 PM and 56 degrees, a full 25 degrees warmer than Chicago, which had been hovering around freezing all day. </p><p>Ian switches his phone off airplane mode. After a few minutes, once a connection has been established to a cell tower, he receives a text from Mickey sent half an hour earlier.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Mickey (10:17 PM):</b> in the cell phone lot, text me when you’re outside baggage claim, i’ll pick you up at the curb, terminal 4</p><p><b>Ian (10:54 PM):</b> 👍 Just landed</p><p>------------------------</p><p>In all Ian’s imaginings of his immediate post-flight experiences in Los Angeles, it never occurred to him that Mickey was going to personally pick him up. He’d thought maybe Mo would order him an Uber. At the absolute most, maybe there’d be a full-on taxi waiting on him like in fucking “Party in the USA.”</p><p>Mickey has a car, obviously, as he’s always driving in Mo’s Instagram stories. Ian doesn’t know why it didn’t cross his mind that Mickey would drive to LAX on his own to pick him up.</p><p>After what feels like an hour of waiting, the passengers can finally unboard the plane. Ian follows the crowd and the signs down the escalator to baggage claim, which he doesn’t need, then texts Mickey before he navigates himself out onto the curb.</p><p>The temperature as he exits the airport is the first thing that hits him, the humidity like a ton of bricks and the 56-degree air feeling almost uncommonly warm in comparison to where he’s coming from, Chicago having been breezily and crisply cold, enough that his nose had been running as he’d waited on the porch for his Uber.</p><p>He hauls his duffel over to an empty spot on the curb and checks his phone.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (11:22 PM):</b> Outside baggage claim</p><p><b>Mickey (11:22 PM):</b> go to the pick up area. i’m in a black camaro, be there in like 10 minutes.</p><p>------------------------</p><p>It’s a long wait, and it’s definitely more than ten minutes--despite the late hour, the pick-up line winding and the curb filled with travelers hailing down their rides.</p><p>By the time Ian spots <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/a0ec13e533c4d01bf241e3bc09039be0/10e1d6c709c9bbcb-97/s1280x1920/b15711b7aeff63cc8e26bcb90619536364c49486.jpg">Mickey’s car</a>--a shiny black coupe with red undercut wheels--it’s nearly 11:45 and he’s already dead on his feet, it being almost 2 AM in Chicago and the stress of the flight delays and the overall new experience having gotten to him.</p><p>He yawns even as he smiles, his heart pounding, as Mickey pulls up to the curb and pops the trunk for Ian to put in his duffel.</p><p>Holy fuck. Holy fuck, fucking fuck. </p><p>Here goes nothing.</p><p>---</p><p>“‘ey,” Mickey greets when Ian pulls open the passenger door. </p><p>For a second, Ian just pauses there, looking at him. Mickey’s dressed completely down, wearing a plain black hoodie and his Adidas track pants. His earrings are out, and his hair’s a fluffy flop like he’d just washed it that morning and let it air dry on its own, no brush or gel to aid its shape.</p><p>Someone honks their horn, and Mickey motions for Ian to get in with an exasperated little smile on his lips.</p><p>Ian doesn’t return the greeting until he’s fully seated in the car and Mickey’s speeding off like a shot, not even waiting for Ian to buckle his seatbelt. </p><p>“Uh, hey,” he finally responds, buckling in and adjusting his positioning in the black leather seat. The interior of the car smells like a piña colada air freshener tree with the faint hint of cigarettes. Ian’s eyes wander to the stereo display system, which reads <i>Spiderwebs -- No Doubt</i> with the volume at 0%.</p><p>“Guess you lost your flight cherry,” Mickey murmurs, slowing to a stop behind a line of cars snaking out of the Terminal 4 parking garage. His eyes cut to Ian for a second, and their gleam is so bright and blue in the exterior lamplight. Beautiful.</p><p>“Yeah. Kind of amazing, actually. ‘cept for the fuckin’ delays. Sorry you had to wait.”</p><p>“It’s whatever. Shit’s always delayed. Woulda been surprised if you landed on time.”</p><p>It’s sweetly awkward like always, their exchange reminding Ian distinctly of the last time they’d met up that night before the Valentine’s Day livestream--all the hem-hawing and the nervous greetings before they laughed and ate their burgers. </p><p>Idly, he wonders if things will ever stop being this way, if one day they’ll immediately fall into each other like the separation was the awkward thing, not the reunion.</p><p>“Anyways, you hungry?” Mickey asks, tapping his fingers rhythmically against the steering wheel in annoyance at the traffic. “Got like a 40-minute drive home, but we can pick up something on the way.”</p><p>Ian smiles, thinking through all the stuff he’s ever heard about Los Angeles. He gives Mickey a hopeful look. “Can we get In-N-Out?”</p><p>Mickey looks at him, brows lowered. “You serious?”</p><p>“It’s LA. Like, how do you come to LA and not get In-N-Out?”</p><p>“It sucks, man. The fries are fuckin’ nasty.”</p><p>Ian gives him a look, and Mickey, catching it out the corner of his eye, sighs. “Whatever, but you gotta let me order so I can undo some of their damage.”</p><p>Ian waves his hand in an expression of <i>be my guest</i>, and Mickey, weaving his way into the line of traffic exiting LAX, flips on his left turn signal.</p><p>There’s an In-N-Out within walking distance of the airport, though with traffic, it still takes an inordinate amount of time to get there. Mickey turns up the volume on the radio, which is playing Spotify via bluetooth, and he and Ian make casual conversation while listening to what seems to be a 90s playlist, Stone Temple Pilots’ “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o0qyP1bA-ME">Interstate Love Song</a>” underscoring their discussion of Ian’s first experience with flying.</p><p>In the in-between moments, Ian peers out the window. Even at midnight, the streets are crowded and the traffic departing the airport is like a series of constant waves flowing out uniformly and then dispersing onto the freeway. Mickey pulls into the <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/8f6e48f313c7db02a3aa19602ce31956/b65e4280c93e5210-6c/s1280x1920/f015e8f04f218454600e4039f3665899dafa4600.jpg">In-N-Out</a> when the digital clock reads 12:07, and it’s 12:14 before they’re able to order.</p><p>Ian doesn’t really know that much about In-N-Out, and the shit that comes out of Mickey’s mouth sounds like gibberish. </p><p>He stares amusedly as Mickey leans into his open window and orders, as if a recitation, “Two double-doubles-mustard-grilled, fries light-well-animal-style, and uhhh, two black-and-whites.”</p><p>“What?” Mickey asks as he pulls up, raising his brows at Ian. “Think I’m gonna let you order a salty, plain-ass burger and nasty, undercooked fries?”</p><p>The <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/006c4b04c964eb5f747c444ebb563adf/66050f3eb951001a-67/s640x960/b6cae97ab9b3e92df5c8aea7dab073361dc5f2b3.jpg">food’s</a> messy as shit, the burgers spilling from little paper bags and the fries in a tray, covered in melted cheese, onions, and smothered in a sauce the color of Thousand Island dressing but that tastes more like a mixture of mayo and ketchup.</p><p>Mickey has such a nice car, but he apparently has no qualms about eating in it, encouraging Ian to “put that shit on the console, man,” in reference to their shared tray of fries. </p><p>They pull out onto the freeway, and after the car’s worked its way into the traffic, which thins out the further they get from the airport, the two of them begin to munch their food and slurp at their milkshakes.</p><p>Ian’s heart hammers as he peers out the window, spotting the palm trees lining the roads, the giant billboards, the orange glow that seems to be cast over everything. Mickey slows the car at an intersection and reaches for his phone, which is mounted on the dashboard.</p><p>He’s chewing a bite of burger, but his lips are upturned at the corners, like he’s thinking of something funny, and Ian asks, “What’s up?”</p><p>“Nooothing.” </p><p>The 90s grunge rock song playing low over the speakers suddenly changes, and Mickey leans in and cranks up the volume until the familiar guitar tune seems as if it’ll blast out the windows, Ian feeling it in his heart and eardrums like a pulse.</p><p>
  <i><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R1kOdTm9FBk">I hopped off the plane at LAX</a><br/>
With a dream and my cardigan</i>
</p><p>“No fuckin’ way,” Ian laughs, mouth full of fries. “You suck!”</p><p>Mickey grins, teeth shiny and beautiful, and argues, “Hey, hey, Miley. You’re the one who recommended I listen to this when I’m stuck in traffic, man.”</p><p>The fact that he remembers the stupid tweet from months ago makes Ian’s belly warm. “Jesus Christ.”</p><p>The two of them crack up like a pair of kids and end up listening to half of “Party in the USA” before Ian gets tired of it and tells Mickey to turn it off.</p><p>“Whatcha wanna listen to, then?”</p><p>“Whatcha got?”</p><p>And as if it’s nothing, shocking Ian in the way it did when he allowed him access to his Instagram DMs, Mickey hands over his phone, open to the Spotify app.</p><p>“Find something,” he says, getting both hands on the steering wheel and tapping his thumbs in tune with <i>So I put my hands up, they’re playing my song, the butterflies fly away.</i></p><p>Ian scrolls through Mickey’s playlists, which range from ones specifically curated for his livestreams to ones he’s made purely for listening, the titles specific to moods and moments in his life.</p><p>
  <i>drumming stuff</i><br/>
<i>quiet shit for night</i><br/>
<i>mo music</i><br/>
<i>morning drive</i><br/>
<i>90s &amp; early 00s</i><br/>
<i>slow shit</i><br/>
<i>drinking</i><br/>
<i>best older stuff</i><br/>
<i>indie hipster fucks</i><br/>
<i>stupid shit for traveling</i><br/>
<i>good fuckin shit!!!</i>
</p><p>Ian scrolls down and down to a playlist entitled <i>night driving</i> and presses play on the shuffle. Clairo’s “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZsQskdZHc4s">4EVER</a>” starts up, and Ian leans over and presses Mickey’s phone back into the dashboard mount.</p><p>They talk casually as they drive up Harbor Freeway on the 110.</p><p>“So where do you live exactly?” Ian asks, trying to get a grip on his surroundings. It feels like they’ve been driving forever, the highway endless. </p><p>“Uh, a neighborhood in Los Feliz near Silverlake.” As if realizing that means absolutely nothing to Ian, Mickey shrugs and says, “I’m like a mile away from the Manson Murder House. Like, two miles away from Walt Disney’s old house. I don’t fuckin’ know.”</p><p>That still means hardly anything to Ian, but Mickey’s tone of voice makes him laugh. “So people in LA are like, basically either freaky cultists or creatives?”</p><p>“Pretty much.”</p><p>“Which are you?”</p><p>“Gotta find out, Gallagher.” Mickey smirks and turns up the radio. It’s a fucking <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ELzgEvk31dk">Carly Rae Jepsen song</a>, and Ian tilts his head to look at him.</p><p>“What?” Mickey asks, shrugging. Embarrassed. It’s too dark to see, but Ian knows that his cheeks are pink. He can <i>feel</i> it. Mickey’s fingers twitch like he’s about to reach for the phone to switch the song, maybe reach for the volume knobs to turn it back down.</p><p>Ian feels bad. “Nothing,” he says, looking away.</p><p>They don’t talk for a few minutes, “Want You In My Room” playing out fully. But when Mickey slows the vehicle as they enter Downtown LA, traffic picking up even at nearly one in the morning, Ian says, voice gentle, “Don’t gotta be embarrassed, y’know.”</p><p>“Ain’t fuckin’ embarrassed.”</p><p>“I know. It’s just…” Ian shrugs. “You listen to fun stuff with Mo, I know. She posts that shit on her story a lot.” He pauses to purse his lips, then adds, “Just wanted you to know you can be like that with me, too. I won’t like, <i>tell anyone</i> or anything.”</p><p>Mickey’s quiet for a moment, the song changing over to The Avalanches’ “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NxC0nhAKwXs">Interstellar Love</a>.” </p><p>Finally, he just shrugs and murmurs, “Whatever.”</p><p>Ian shrugs back and tilts his head against the window.</p><p>The drive through Downtown LA is incredible, the city opening up and making Ian’s belly swoop. They pass the outskirts of dense, light-filled skyscrapers, the Financial District, then continue on until they thin out and are replaced by more and more palm trees as they loop around through Sunset Blvd. </p><p>Ian checks his watch. 3:14 AM Chicago time. He rubs his eyes. Stifles a yawn.</p><p>Out the corner of his eye, he catches Mickey glancing at him.</p><p>“Almost there,” he says, nodding his head toward Ian’s window. “We’re passin’ Silverlake right now, ‘bout 5 minutes away from my house.”</p><p>“Sorry,” Ian apologizes, letting his yawn fly. “It’s like, 3:15 in Chicago.”</p><p>“Yup. It’s cool.” Mickey slows and turns right onto a concrete bridge that Ian can see down the line eventually meets a security gate. “Plane rides and shit always fuck me up.”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>They pull up to the gate, and Mickey rolls down his window and inputs a 5-digit code into the keypad.</p><p>Ian closes his eyes, rests his head on the seatback, and listens to “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RBtlPT23PTM">Space Song</a>” by Beach House. </p><p>The next thing he knows, he’s giving a little jerk, the car tilted upward as it makes its way up a steep driveway. He rubs his eyes. Yawns. Checks the time. He was out for just about three minutes.</p><p>“Hey,” Mickey says, nodding at the structure in front of them. “We’re here.”</p><p>Ian peers out, the glare from the outdoor security lights making him squint. </p><p>When he imagined Mickey’s house, he always sort of expected it to be a mansion--wide and sprawling with a pointed roof, arched windows and like, ivy or fucking rose bushes crawling up the side. In reality, it honestly <i>isn’t</i>.</p><p>It’s a nice house, obviously. It’s the type of house Ian’s never stepped foot inside to his memory, and it probably cost a good million and a half on the market. But it isn’t <i>lavish</i> or <i>excessive</i>, and Ian can’t help but smile, the fact making him like Mickey all the more.</p><p>It’s a white stucco, <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/23cfda9511e534de63e3b2992f06087b/755f1a230a2dc4b8-14/s500x750/6236fcdaca66f6b3f86afd84a39c6b8528e04a5f.jpg">upright rectangular home in contemporary style</a>--three stories from what Ian can eyeball but skinny, probably less than 2,000 square feet altogether--with a slanted roof. There are two balconies--one on the second floor and one on the third--surrounded by black metal railing, and outside, against the edge of the steep driveway, is a flattened patio area on which is some rattan furniture and that white table from Mickey’s story, six black, aluminum chairs surrounding it.</p><p>Mickey pulls all the way up the driveway and into an open concrete garage with no door that’s just large enough to hold his car, then cuts the engine. The Camaro’s interior lights switch on, and Mickey turns to Ian, swiping his finger across his mouth nervously.</p><p>“This is it,” he says, voice low, and Ian smiles at him. Idly, he wonders how many people he’s brought to his home--how many people he’s allowed in.</p><p>Mickey pops the trunk, and the two of them climb out.</p><p>It’s a bit cooler now--heavy jacket weather--and Ian shivers as he heads around to grab his bag while Mickey makes his way to a black-painted door near a shelving unit that contains, of all things, a boxed artificial Christmas tree. He unlocks the door and elbows it open, and Ian closes the car trunk and heads in after him.</p><p>The first story, Ian finds, is nothing but a boxy foyer with what looks like the slightly-ajar door to a large storage closet. Three feet from the entrance is a steep staircase leading up to the second floor, the steps a light wood and the mounted railing black.</p><p>Mickey closes and locks the front door behind Ian and then hangs his keys on a cast-iron hook. He flips on some lights, nods his head in the direction of the staircase, and the two of them head up.</p><p>“Uhh, living room, kitchen,” Mickey says once they reach the top. He flips on more lights, illuminating the large, open space that’s bisected by the staircase. </p><p>As far as color schemes go, Mickey’s stuck with mostly black and white--walls white, furniture black. As Ian stands at the top of the staircase, to his left is the living room with the black sectional couch he’d seen in Mickey’s story months earlier, and on the wall behind it are the three framed <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/80f074640b207075147fb8d724dfd2b4/97561e1bacc19625-86/s1280x1920/77399f79c582182747ba2b500b412fba8d649939.jpg">Keith Haring prints</a>. On the wall across from the couch, Mickey has a mounted 70-inch flatscreen above a black media console cabinet that looks like it contains the world’s collection of PlayStations, Xboxes, Wiis, and DVD players.</p><p>The TV’s switched on still, the Apple TV screensaver on rotation. On a black IKEA coffee table is a line of remotes, gaming controllers, a notepad and pen, and Mickey’s MacBook Pro.</p><p>It’s contemporary and stylish, decorative accents here and there--a small black and gold globe in the center of the coffee table, a circular iron chandelier, a sleek turntable on a black marble cabinet cozied up under the window, the shelves filled with rows and rows of records. On the window sill sit two faux succulents and a <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/a81df3c0e7bab15a026a2c007aa7a5ad/20d8dfb0bbd901cf-c9/s540x810/9946049160314225d44c89973c07984e5085e936.jpg">Kojima Productions Ludens figurine</a>. </p><p>But even though it’s <i>cool</i>, Ian’s slightly flabbergasted at how <i>normal</i> it looks, at how much he thinks he’d feel comfortable kicking off his shoes and collapsing onto the couch.</p><p>On the other side of the room is a small dining area with a black table and chairs by a set of sliding glass doors that open up to the second-floor balcony. And directly across from Ian is a kitchen, a left-turning staircase to the third floor, and the door to what looks like a small bathroom.</p><p>The <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/883e8f0e7ef1611e3d76ef7c870142da/3b3aad156cf0774f-6a/s640x960/8ac42e2f21b44924696971566396da7bfcef4581.jpg">kitchen</a> is little but modern, the cabinets a deep gray and countertops shiny and white. There’s a large, white-topped island with a row of barstools, and all the appliances are stainless steel and gleaming in the overhead lights. </p><p>Ian considers asking Mickey if he ever cooks, but the other man’s already on his way toward the bathroom just to the left of the kitchen and at the bottom of the staircase, opening the door and flipping on the light. </p><p>“Bathroom,” he says, switching the light back off. “If you gotta take a shit, do it in one of the bathrooms upstairs. I don’t know why, but if you do it here, you’ll literally smell it throughout the entire fuckin’ house, man.”</p><p>Ian snorts. That’s not really something he’s thought about, but yeah, okay. Shitting in Mickey’s house. That’s a thing he’s probably gonna have to do a few times over the next five days. </p><p>“Good to know?” he says with a smirk. Mickey shrugs and leads Ian up the staircase to the third floor. </p><p>It’s mostly a hallway filled with bedrooms. To the immediate right is Mickey’s gaming room, a silly cardboard sign on the door declaring <i>STAY THE FUCK OUT</i>. He skips over the next room entirely and instead stands in the middle of the hallway and points.</p><p>The room in the center of the hall, “Guest room.” The room at the very end, “My room.”</p><p>Mickey eyes Ian for a moment and then opens the door to the guest room, which is pretty standard, though elegant--same white walls as the rest of the house, iron bed, white bedding with rose-colored pillows, two tiny windows with faux succulent plants. Above the bed is a pair of framed art prints of 18th century women blowing bubbles with bubblegum. There’s a door to a closet, door to a bathroom.</p><p>“Uh, Mandy picked this shit out, so. Kinda her room. Mo sometimes, too.”</p><p>Mickey seems strangely nervous. He’s fidgeting, eyes are jumping this way and that, focusing on seemingly everything but Ian.</p><p>Ian nods at the room and tries to smile reassuringly. “Yeah, it’s nice.”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>Mickey’s eyes finally land on Ian. He swallows. Swipes across his nose with his thumb. </p><p>“Uh,” he says, voice a mumble, “you can stay in here if you want, or, y’know. If you want, you can stay with me or whatever. Whatever you want.” He points toward the door at the end of the hall. “I’m right down here.”</p><p>Ian eyes him, brows raised in amusement because stuttery, nervous Mickey is just about the cutest fucking thing.</p><p>Mickey swallows again, loud enough that Ian hears the squeak of his throat contracting. “Uh, I got like, a cool view or whatever if you wanna see it.” He takes a backward step toward his room. “Or you can stay in Mandy’s room or whatever. It’s cool.”</p><p>Ian laughs then, a breathy thing he can’t hold in, and Mickey looks unbearably concerned for a second before schooling his expression back to bored, nonchalant. </p><p>Ian wants to call him a dumbass, wants to say goofily <i>or whatever</i> because Mickey’s said it about twelve times. Instead, he steps out of the doorway to the guest room and nods toward the other door.</p><p>“Kinda wanna see the view.”</p><p>Mickey smiles, and it’s sweet, his teeth showing with it. </p><p>“Uh, yeah, cool,” he says, making his way down the hall.</p><p>Mickey’s bedroom isn’t too structurally different from the guest room. It’s about the same size and shape, all white walls, black IKEA dresser, closet door, bathroom door. Rather than an iron bed, however, there’s a <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/f54c7280fc39f4259b8b67eef71599a4/849b5e89df3f5e07-f1/s400x600/c0057f918a3e870f90559552424f1cb6c747157f.jpg">black bed with a velvet-upholstered headboard</a> and a comfortable-looking gray duvet over white sheets.</p><p>The real star, however, is the sliding glass door leading out to a <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/d44fa5e34a32a003183bc146c98bac38/4ff3c0216d20739f-c8/s2048x3072/f736f391ba776e717f00116691917e92758dd853.jpg">balcony</a>--a twin to the one downstairs. After setting down his duffel on Mickey’s bed, Ian heads over to it, unlocks and slides it open, then steps out, Mickey on his heels.</p><p>On the balcony, Mickey has a couple funky-looking chairs and a card table, but they’re insignificant in comparison to the neighborhood view. It feels distinctly California, the palm trees illuminated by Mickey’s outdoor lights, the glimmer of the homes on the gentle slope of a hill, the lights of Downtown Los Angeles in the background.</p><p>It’s quiet--much quieter than anywhere Ian thinks he’s been in his life. Peaceful. It feels safe. Ian leans against the metal bars of the balcony railing and thinks about a boy escaping his home in Chicago for safety in all ways.</p><p><i>I miss you when I’m not with you</i>, Ian wants to say. He turns to Mickey, who comes up beside him. Leans against the guardrail. He’s close enough that Ian can smell the laundry detergent on his hoodie.</p><p>He opens his mouth to speak. Instead, he yawns.</p><p>Mickey smirks up at him and scoots close. Bumps him with his shoulder.</p><p>“Alright, c’mere,” he says, stepping away and back into the bedroom. Ian yawns again, this time obnoxiously loudly, and follows him in.</p><p>Mickey opens the door to a mid-sized walk-in closet, flips on the light, and drags the row of his hanging clothes to the right until he’s made about a foot of space. </p><p>“If you need to hang up anything, you can put it here. Got some extra hangers and shit.” He bites his lip, thinking, then steps back out of the closet. </p><p>“Uhhh, bathroom,” he says, opening up the other door to a <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/47e1e887eaa6a33a4a560f6bd1d552f6/9dada748e6d107ef-e9/s1280x1920/56b235f3eee2580d37b2f20abd256949b17fbbbe.jpg">bathroom</a> that, while gorgeous and contemporary, is small and still relatively normal-looking, like one at a hotel. The only unique thing about it is that there’s a bathtub in the shower. </p><p>“You can put your shaving stuff or whatever shit you want in here.” Mickey motions toward the countertop and tugs open the medicine cabinet, which contains Mickey’s own shaving cream, face washes, deodorant, and an electric razor.</p><p>He closes the cabinet, looks around as if at a loss for a second, then shrugs. “Think that’s it.” He flips off the bathroom light and heads back into the bedroom, Ian on his heels. “Make yourself at home, I guess.” Motions toward the bed. “Bed’s here if you wanna sleep.”</p><p>“Thanks,” Ian says, checking his watch. 3:49 Chicago time. He rubs his eyes.</p><p>With a nod, Mickey leaves him to it, and Ian hears him padding back down the hallway and then down the stairs.</p><p>He takes a deep breath.</p><p>Shit. He’s in Los Angeles, alone with Mickey at his house. It sets in then, his brain abuzz with exhaustion and wonder. He peers around the room, eyes landing on the framed print of <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/9b7375de9edf29e178237a7979a6b85d/c517fcc4cee50979-ae/s1280x1920/fa4d657dbd76a716c98fa09a58ac30bb627b448a.jpg">Van Gogh’s smoking skeleton</a> above the bed. The black bucket chair in the corner covered with two T-shirts and a pair of inside-out jeans. The IKEA nightstand on which rests a lamp, alarm clock, tissue box, and ashtray. </p><p>Ian can’t help but snoop a little. He sneaks to the nightstand and slowly tugs open the drawer. Inside is an unopened box of condoms, the plastic wrapper still on, a half-flattened tube of Astroglide, and some random junk-drawer type shit. </p><p>He doesn’t really know what he was looking for. Sex toys, maybe. Something super secret and revealing. Whatever. He closes the drawer and, with a shrug to himself, moves over to his duffel.</p><p>For the next ten minutes, Ian unpacks his clothes, hanging in Mickey’s closet the three solid, short-sleeve button-downs he’d brought, then folding the rest of this stuff and laying them in a little stack on Mickey’s dresser--some T-shirts, jeans, boxers. </p><p>He takes out his toiletry bag, which he’d paid sixteen bucks for at Target, and brings it to the bathroom. His meds are inside, both the filled pill organizer and some extras all mixed together in a Tylenol bottle with the label peeled off.</p><p>Ian ponders for a moment. Worries over it. He checks the medicine cabinet more closely, but Mickey apparently doesn’t keep his own meds here.</p><p>With a deep breath, Ian gingerly sets his toiletry pouch in the corner of the bathroom counter and flips off the light.</p><p>He changes into pajamas--some black sweats and a burgundy V-neck--pulls back the duvet, but last second, decides he should at least say goodnight to Mickey.</p><p>Quietly, Ian heads barefoot down the hallway and then descends the staircase to the second floor.</p><p>Mickey looks up when he hears him hit the landing. He’s at the kitchen counter, drinking from a glass of water and holding his phone in his left hand like he’d been texting someone.</p><p>“Hey,” he greets, giving Ian a nod. “You good?”</p><p>“Yeah.” Ian walks over and climbs up onto one of the barstools across from Mickey. “So what’s our schedule?”</p><p>Mickey hums, sets down his phone and water glass, and heads over to the living room, where he picks up the notepad and pen resting on the coffee table. When he returns, he drops it on the counter in front of Ian, then crosses to the cabinets, takes out another glass, and fills it with water from the fridge door.</p><p>“Three chapters left,” he says, the whirr of the water dispenser drowning out just the slightest bit of his voice. “So I figured we’d do one a day--tomorrow, Saturday, and Sunday. Like, three to four hours each, so it shouldn't be bad.”</p><p>Ian scans the notepad on which Mickey’s written a daily schedule for himself in a messy, near-illegible scrawl. <i>Editing. Recording. Griffith Park. Dinner.</i></p><p>“What’s at Griffith Park?”</p><p>Mickey brings Ian his glass of water and then climbs up on the stool beside him. He reaches across the island and drags over his own water glass and phone.</p><p>“Figured you might wanna see the Hollywood sign, Miley,” he says before taking a drink. He holds the water in his mouth for a second, swishes it around, then swallows. </p><p>Ian’s noticed Mickey does that a lot--with water, beer, pop. It’s cute, like something a little kid would do. Ian bumps him with his elbow before glancing back at the notepad.</p><p>“Thanks,” he murmurs, absently reaching for his own glass and then proceeding to drink half of it, thirst suddenly hitting him over the head. </p><p>He wipes his mouth on the neck of his T-shirt. “Okay, so. Cool. Four hours a day.”</p><p>“Yeah. And you don’t gotta be in all of it. Just figured you could kinda be there, maybe play a little out of each chapter.”</p><p>Ian yawns. “Anything to please the masses.”</p><p>“The <i>masses</i>.”</p><p>“Look, Mickey, I don’t know what to tell ya. My follower count’s in the quadruple digits now. I’m a fuckin’ star.”</p><p>Mickey snorts into his water glass. Tilts his head back and chugs most of it down. He swipes his mouth afterward and stretches, then snatches back the notepad.</p><p>“If there's anything you wanna see or whatever, just lemme know. I don’t really care about touristy shit, but I dunno.” He shrugs. “It’s LA.”</p><p>Ian yawns again and leans back with it, rolling his shoulders. “‘kay,” he murmurs, rubbing his eyes with his fists. “I’ll make you a list.”</p><p>Mickey <i>chh</i>s at him and gives him a playful shove. “Alright, go to bed. It’s fuckin’...” He squints at the time on the microwave. “Like, 4:10 Chicago time.”</p><p>Ian nods, yawns again, and climbs off the stool. “D’you stay up late?” he asks, scratching at the back of his neck.</p><p>He knows what it sounds like. It sounds like an implied, <i>Come to bed</i>. It is and it isn’t. Ian sniffs and watches Mickey, who shrugs and finishes the rest of his water. </p><p>“Not this late, usually. Just kinda wired. Had like, two Monsters waitin’ on your ass.”</p><p>Ian huffs a laugh out his nose and nods. “Cool. ‘kay. Night, Mickey.”</p><p>Mickey nods at him. “Night.”</p><p>---</p><p>It’s dumb, but Ian’s never really slept under a duvet before--always just a sheet and a comforter or a sheet and a blanket. He climbs in, not really sure what side to pick but going for the one nearest the glass door, and snuggles down into the warmth of Mickey’s bed.</p><p>The duvet cover and pillowcase smell freshly washed, like lavender-scented detergent. Ian breathes deeply, pulls the duvet up beneath his chin, and closes his eyes.</p><p>He blinks awake when the digital alarm clock reads 2:58 AM, and squinting, he spies Mickey heading into the bathroom. Ian listens to the sounds of him peeing, brushing his teeth, and washing his face, then watches as he cuts the light, steps out of the bathroom, and pulls off his hoodie, revealing a white T-shirt underneath. He kicks off his Vans and socks.</p><p>The lights of Los Feliz are nowhere near as bright as the lights of Chicago, but Ian can still see Mickey pull off his pants so he’s in just his T-shirt and dark-colored slim-fit boxers. He closes his eyes as Mickey starts to make his way over.</p><p>Mickey has a queen-sized bed, so it’s much smaller than the king at the hotel and barely larger than the double they ended up in on Valentine’s Day. Ian feels the warmth of Mickey’s body as he joins him under the duvet, feels the occasional brush of their legs. Their bare feet touch once, and it tickles Ian into a jerk that causes Mickey to make a breathy noise like he’s about to speak.</p><p>He doesn’t.</p><p>Ian listens to the sounds of Mickey settling in, the sounds of his swallows, his snuffles.</p><p>Finally, when the clock reads just past 3:00, Ian drifts off, lulled into a gentle slumber by the soothing presence of the man beside him.</p><p>---<br/>
---</p><p>When Ian wakes, it’s nearly 9:30, and Mickey’s gone. He knows it without even turning or reaching behind him, the absence of the warmth he’d felt beneath the duvet all night his biggest indicator.</p><p>He yawns, and with sleep-crusty eyes, peers out toward the sliding glass balcony door--through which he can see nothing but blue skies, Mickey’s palm trees, and his Los Feliz neighborhood in the distance, everything golden in a way that Chicago always seems blue.</p><p>Ian twists onto his back and stretches, knuckles to the velvet of the headboard. He stares up at the ceiling, at the rows of can lights, then turns on his other side and wanders his eyes across to Mickey’s dresser, where Ian’s stack of clothes joins some sort of gaming award he hardly noticed the night before, as well as a custom Funko Pop Pyramid Head.</p><p>Distantly, he hears the muffled sound of rock music, like Mickey’s an angsty teenager in his room down the hall with the door closed. Ian smiles at the thought, wondering what he’s gotten up to this morning, wondering about his routines and whether he’ll continue to follow them even while Ian’s there.</p><p>He hopes so. Ian finds himself desperately wanting to know what Mickey’s like on his own, in his own home, away from social media and Chicago hotels and clandestine hook-ups.</p><p>He yawns one last time, runs his hands over his face, and climbs out of bed to track down his phone, which he’d left in his jeans pocket.</p><p>There’s a deluge of messages from the Gallagher group chat. </p><p><i>did u make it??</i> </p><p><i>How’s LA?</i> </p><p><i>Send me a picture of Mickey’s house plz!!</i> 🤩🤩🤩😱😱 </p><p>
  <i>Be careful, we love u! xoxo</i>
</p><p>Ian perches on Mickey’s catch-all chair by the balcony door and answers some of his family members’ questions. Tells them he made it safely. Sends a few pictures from the plane and then another he snaps of the view of Los Feliz from where he’s sitting. That’s all Liam’s gonna get of Mickey’s house because well, he’s ten, and Ian’s not sure he trusts him with an Instagram account and a picture of Mickey’s home.</p><p>And he’s just standing up afterward, about to search for and hopefully commandeer Mickey’s phone charger, when he happens to look down at the pile of clothes beneath him.</p><p>There’s the inside-out skinny jeans, size 31x28, Mickey’s oversized Korn T-shirt with the bleach stains on the back, and there, just beneath, like Mickey’d worn it and then tossed it there when he changed, is the gray T-shirt Ian’d accidentally brought to sleep in that night in January after the benefit concert. The fucking Youth XL shirt Mickey’d called a crop-top.</p><p>Heart in his throat, Ian picks it up. Sniffs it like a weirdo. It smells like Mickey in the morning, like this is a shirt he’s slept in before, maybe for a couple days in a row before discarding it in favor of another.</p><p><i>He’s slept in Ian’s T-shirt</i>.</p><p>Ian’s stomach churns at the thought. </p><p>Mickey in his shirt. Mickey wanting to wear his shirt. <i>Maybe</i>. Or maybe he’d just tried it on out of curiosity to see if it fit, found it did, and decided to leave it on. Maybe, maybe not.</p><p>Ian swallows heavily and arranges the clothes back the way he found them, heart pounding away.</p><p>He’s gotta take his meds. He’s gotta find Mickey. Say <i>hi</i>. <i>Good morning. You’ve slept in my T-shirt.</i></p><p>Okay, probably not. He’s not <i>actually</i> going to say anything. But he can’t help the fact that the thought makes his belly warm. </p><p>He heads to the bathroom, pees, and brushes his teeth. He takes his FRI. MORN. pills with sink water he cups in his hands and then thinks he’s probably at least a little bit ridiculous for this.</p><p>After getting himself sufficiently awake and refreshed, Ian pads out into the hallway and toward the faint, muffled sound of music coming from the door Mickey’d skipped over during the tour. There’s drumming. Guitar. Ian presses his ear to the door and thinks he hears Mickey singing along with the song.</p><p>He grins and, steeling himself, knocks.</p><p>No answer.</p><p>Knocks again.</p><p>To this, he hears an abrupt lowering of sound volume followed by a pause, then a still-muffled, “It’s open!” </p><p>Ian turns the knob, and he thinks he might die of sheer horniness at what he sees.</p><p>It’s a music room, clearly, three of the walls lined with black soundproofing panels. There’s a couple acoustic guitars on stands, a black and white electric guitar, a sleekly modern upright piano. </p><p>There’s Mickey Milkovich sitting behind a Pearl drumset, exertion-sweat shining on his forehead where morning-disheveled hairs are stuck. He’s flushed and out of breath, still in his white T-shirt and boxers, and in his hands are drumsticks, which he’s spinning idly between his fingers.</p><p>Beside him, his phone’s lying on a small shelf and connected to a bluetooth speaker, and he’s blaring Foo Fighters’ “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AxuTd9rwEHQ">Everlong</a>,” which he’s clearly been playing along with. </p><p>Mickey looks a little like he’s been caught with his hand down his pants. He’s sucking at his lips, nervous, but glancing down at his drumset like he’s considering going <i>fuck it</i> and starting back up again.</p><p>The song ends, and he reaches over to pause Spotify on his phone.</p><p>“Hey,” Ian greets, giving an awkward wave. </p><p>Mickey nods at him in return.</p><p>“Didn’t wanna interrupt, just…” Ian shrugs. Grins. “Can I watch you play?”</p><p>For a second, Ian thinks Mickey’s going to tell him <i>no</i>, to <i>get the fuck out</i>, his mouth poised as if to say it. </p><p>But after a moment of hesitation, Mickey shrugs.</p><p>“Uh, yeah, whatever,” he says, reaching for his phone and restarting “Everlong.” “I’m just learning this shit, so if I fuck up, keep your mouth shut.”</p><p>His words are hard, but his lips aren’t. Instead, they’re soft and pursed. Ian sits down in a ratty blue armchair shoved against the wall and watches him.</p><p>He really doesn’t know what he’s looking at. Mickey could be the best or worst drummer in the world, and Ian’d have no idea. But he sounds good, and he looks even better. The combination of the loud music playing through the speakers and Mickey working out the beats and drumming out the proper rhythm by ear is insanely hot, not to mention the fact that he gets so into it, his head moving and flop of hair bouncing and sticking to his sweat to the point that he has to swipe it away with his forearm during a break.</p><p>He plays the song through twice, then for fun, clearly feeling more confident in Ian’s presence, says, “This one’s fuckin’ hard, and I don’t really know it yet” and starts up Slipknot’s “Psychosocial.” Ian can tell he’s a beginner at this one, but Mickey laughs when he fucks up, his grin so beautiful and his face so red, and it makes Ian laugh, as well.</p><p>Pretty soon, Ian’s up wandering over to Mickey to get a closer look, and Mickey takes a moment between songs to show off, drumming out a beat he knows by heart. </p><p>“Alright, fuckin’...” Ian makes a face, trying to think of a famous drummer. “Ringo Starr.”</p><p>Mickey flips him off. “Ringo’s a shitty drummer.”</p><p>“I don’t know shit about Ringo, Mickey.”</p><p>“Yeah, whatever.” He bangs out something loud and obnoxious, like a kid throwing a tantrum, then grabs up his phone and puts on “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zFYEYRcjK2g">Creep</a>” by Radiohead. He plays along while Ian checks out his wall of records.</p><p>Ian’d seen it before in one of his Instagram posts, but he hadn’t known where it was located.</p><p>It’s a 9-foot wall behind Mickey’s drumset painted hot pink, with vinyl records glued all over the surface in a way that suggests Mickey’s still adding to it and potentially hoping to eventually cover it in its entirety.</p><p>The records are nothing special--old, thrift store LPs by artists Ian’s never heard of. Shit you find in the basement that you can’t sell because it’s not worth anything.</p><p>“I like this,” Ian comments loudly over the sound of Mickey drumming. </p><p>Mickey pauses and turns. Gives Ian a nod of acknowledgment before turning back.</p><p>“Like your drumming, too. You should play on your stream during the break. Your fans would shit themselves.”</p><p>Mickey’s playing falters for a moment before growing strong again, and Ian knows he isn’t imagining the flush making its way up Mickey’s neck. It isn’t an exertion flush, either.</p><p>Ian smiles to himself, happy he’s made him feel good.</p><p>When the song’s over, Mickey stops the music, puts his drumsticks on the shelf below his bluetooth speaker, and stands. He shakes out his arms like after a workout and, in a move that makes Ian want to die, pulls up the bottom of his shirt to swipe across his forehead, putting his stomach on display. </p><p>Revealing the three, nearly completely faded yellowish spots around his navel where Ian’d sucked hickies.</p><p>Ian would think it was a deliberate play--a come on, even--but afterward, Mickey simply straightens his shirt, smooths back his sweaty hair, and picks up his phone to check a text, clearly not noticing Ian’s reaction.</p><p>“Got breakfast delivery coming,” he notes, casual as anything.</p><p>“Great.” Ian scratches at his neck, tugs at the collar of his T-shirt. “Gonna take a shower if that’s cool.”</p><p>“Yup.”</p><p>Ian escapes the room and may or may not jerk off in Mickey’s weird shower with the bathtub in it, thinking about the little wispy hairs beneath his belly button and the fact that Mickey’s slept in his T-shirt and has lived for over two weeks with marks from his mouth on his skin.</p><p>---</p><p>The “delivery” is, in fact, <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/3ee9345f2ebb5918bacb3706f1d78184/e6d42a1d8a0dd55d-15/s500x750/6de1dad2bd25cea42d5f200e1e6d97d442df74b5.jpg">Mo</a> bringing insanely massive breakfast burritos from Café Los Feliz. When Ian heads downstairs after getting showered and dressed, he finds her and Mickey laughing about something in the kitchen, where they’re brewing Veranda Blend in an expensive-looking but traditional drip coffee maker.</p><p>“Ian!” Mo calls, holding out her arms for him. Ian grins at her enthusiasm and steps over and into her arms for a comforting squeeze. </p><p>They greet each other and make small talk while Mickey sets three empty mugs on the kitchen island and then fucks off to go take a shower.</p><p>Mo asks Ian about his flight, about his first time navigating an airport. Once the coffee’s brewed, they fill their mugs and head over to the kitchen table to drink and chat while they wait on Mickey.</p><p>Mo seems ultra-comfortable in Mickey’s home, getting up and stealing one of the pillows from his couch to put on the hard kitchen chair. When she takes a sip of her coffee to find it’s too strong, she goes to the kitchen and digs in one of Mickey’s drawers for a handful of creamers that she brings back and sets in a little pile between them.</p><p>“So how was your night?” Mo asks once she’s finally settled, peeling back the tab on one of the creamers and dumping it into her coffee.</p><p>“Late.”</p><p>Mo smiles, her lips upturning gently like she finds him cute in a childlike way.</p><p>“Not like that,” Ian clarifies. “We didn’t get in ‘til after one, and then I had to unpack and stuff. So we were up ‘til like, three.” He yawns as if triggered by his own words. Takes a sip of his coffee.</p><p>“Well, Mr. Grumpy’s quite a bit less grumpy this morning, so I suppose I have you to thank.”</p><p>Ian’s not sure what she means by that, but he doesn’t ask, the awkwardness settling around him like a cloud.</p><p>“Mr. Grumpy,” he comments instead, looping his fingers through the mug handle.</p><p>“He’s lovely, really. A beautiful human being.” Mo waves her hand in the air. “But he’s a right arsehole when he wants to be. Sent me a text asking me to pick up breakfast like he’s a bloody king! Refuses to cook.” She rolls her eyes. “<i>But</i> this morning I asked what he’d like, and he said…” </p><p>Mo pulls her phone out of her pocket and brings up Mickey’s text. After a pause, she reads, dropping her English accent and putting on a low, thuggish American one, “I think Ian would prob’ly like the breakfast burritos at the café.”</p><p>She tilts her head at Ian afterward, as if he’s supposed to say something in response to that. Her eyes gleam, but she doesn’t comment, doesn’t give him any indication of what she’s expecting to hear.</p><p>It’s sweet what Mickey texted. Ian’s not going to say that. Instead, he takes a drink of his too-hot coffee and burns his tongue.</p><p>“Anyway,” Mo says after a minute of silence. “The breakfast burritos <i>are</i> excellent, and Mickey’s a bit of a twat but a good one.” She takes a sip of her coffee, then smirks as she swallows. “A twat with a heart of gold.”</p><p>---</p><p>Mickey comes barreling down the stairs a few minutes later, barefoot but dressed in a Sex Pistols <i>God Save the Queen</i> <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/268ac73db2ab5b529aeeedfcd2d35c02/3a24acbbf03c0532-39/s540x810/9d3dfb5ef742c0b622d930f3abc99ecac7bbeec4.jpg">T-shirt</a> that’s a size too big and his denim skinnies with rips in the knees. His hair’s still mostly wet and brushed back, the bits that are drying beginning to fluff up, and he’s blowing on his thumbnail, which he’s apparently just painted.</p><p>“Lovely of you to join us, Twat with a Heart of Gold,” Mo greets, climbing out of her chair and crossing over to where she’s got the breakfast burritos stuffed inside an insulated bag.</p><p>“The fuck’d you call me?”</p><p>Mickey doesn’t look too concerned. He heads into the kitchen and carefully, so as not to mess up his nail polish, pours himself a mug of coffee and takes a huge gulp that absolutely <i>has</i> to scald his throat.</p><p>He doesn’t react if it does, though, simply walks his mug over to the table and sets it down at the head of it. King Mickey. Ian smiles at the thought and climbs out of his chair to help with the plates and napkins.</p><p>The <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/2fea32034a456448e389850fca6bd0f6/948ac551a147270b-48/s400x600/97d6a72bf6c199b04c3c54f15c658d2a3e862e46.jpg">burritos</a> are actually kind of incredible. The three of them devour their breakfast, only stopping to talk once they begin to get full.</p><p>Mickey and Mo discuss a gig about which Mo’s been contacted--some kind of event for inner-city teens in June.</p><p>“You’re not a guest speaker, per se, but they would expect you to say something. Interact with the kids in some capacity, perhaps a Q&amp;A.”</p><p>Mickey slows his chewing as he thinks about it, and Ian watches him closely.</p><p>He shrugs. “Maybe. What’s it pay?”</p><p>“Ehhhm.” Mo pulls out her phone and takes a long moment to hunt down an email. “$2,500? Says here it’s negotiable. You’d be obliged for four hours, 1 PM to 5 PM. It’s a Saturday.”</p><p>Mickey shakes his head then, and Ian thinks he’s going to turn it down. </p><p>Instead, he shoves the rest of the burrito into his mouth, chews it partially, and says, mouth full, “Nah, tell ‘em I’ll do it for free. Check the dates, though. Get Luca to hold back some of the merch for it. Kid sizes.”</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>Mickey simply nods as if it’s nothing, finishes chewing, and reaches for his coffee.</p><p>---</p><p>They finish up their food and move to the <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/14435083ef6aa907f795bd2325e31c5c/a51adab792dcab10-03/s640x960/a0384073ffc89e3055c9cc02420a4158bc75bec8.jpg">balcony</a>. Ian and Mickey sit at the circular patio table and smoke while Mo stretches out on a chaise in the sun and complains.</p><p>“Surely not you, too, Ian,” she says, waving off a cloud of smoke floating toward her.</p><p>“Sorry, Mo.”</p><p>“<i>Blech</i>.”</p><p>Mickey scoffs at her. “You’re the only person I know who <i>doesn’t</i> smoke.”</p><p>“Oh, my apologies. Did you just say I’m the only person you know with healthy lungs?”</p><p>Ian chuckles, takes a hard drag off his cigarette, and watches Mickey blow smoke toward her.</p><p>They chat idly for a while, then Mo gets up, heads into the house, and brings Mickey a stack of mail.</p><p>“Don’t forget to pay your Internet bill this month, Mister,” she says, tapping the first bill in the stack. “I’m not your mum. I’m not washing your tighty-whities and teaching you how to be an adult.”</p><p>Mickey flips her off. “Moms are supposed to do that? Mine just smoked meth and disappeared for months on end.”</p><p>“<i>Christ</i>, Mickey.”</p><p>“Yes, Mom.”</p><p>Mo moves close to him and presses a kiss to his cheek. “Love you lots. I’m going to the office.”</p><p>Mickey wipes off his face like a literal child and reaches for another cigarette.</p><p>Ian’s a little flabbergasted by the exchange. He raises his eyebrows at Mickey after saying his goodbyes to Mo, who kisses his temple and tells him to stop smoking.</p><p>Mickey waits for Mo to leave and then shrugs, idly sparking his lighter for a moment before touching the flame to the end of his cigarette. </p><p>“Think I should fire her?” he asks wryly, and Ian rolls his eyes and steals the cigarette from between his lips.</p><p>They smoke in silence, peering down at the neighborhood. Ian thinks about Mickey’s mom and dad. Considers saying, <i>I also have a mom who fucks off for months at a time.</i> Doesn’t.</p><p>He shoots intermittent glances Mickey’s way and wants to ask him about his childhood. Wants to tell him he’s proud of him. That he did a good job. That he’s currently smoking a cigarette from the balcony of his million-dollar home after having a joking spat with his best-friend-agent-personal-assistant.</p><p>But well, Ian knows none of that matters sometimes. Shit still hurts. Shit’s still hard to talk about.</p><p>When they’re done with the cigarette, Mickey crushes it out in an ashtray and stands. Checks the time on his phone.</p><p>“Thought we’d start recording at noon,” he says, prompting Ian to check his own watch. 1:28 Chicago time. 11:28 LA time.</p><p>Ian nods and stands with him, and they head upstairs to get ready.</p><p>While Mickey pulls on a <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/da1c28722087550a094f7fd9931a90cf/227f10aaa1a3a557-62/s1280x1920/8521db40c4c382d0cf5e65df7a9168e2f13bf450.jpg">navy floral-print shirt</a> and then disappears into the bathroom to style his hair, Ian checks his V-neck for breakfast stains and, finding none, takes his burgundy short-sleeved button-down from Mickey’s closet and pulls it on, leaving it unbuttoned.</p><p>Mickey eyes him when he walks into the bathroom to use the mirror, and Ian feels the tips of his ears warm when he spies the tiny smile on Mickey’s lips as he works on putting in his earrings.</p><p>Once they’re camera ready, they head into the gaming room.</p><p>It’s strangely underwhelming, only one wall decorated and the rest of the room devoid of basically anything except clear plastic tote containers filled with games, equipment, and cords. There’s a bookshelf against the wall nearest the door, and on it are figurines, collector’s editions of games, and a wholly disorganized mish-mash of stuff that’s likely been mailed to Mickey or given to him at events.</p><p>The gaming station <i>is</i> cool to see, though. From simply video, it’s impossible to see that his desk is a long, black gaming desk on which sits three side-by-side monitors. It’s impeccably organized, unlike the rest of the room, the cords all straightened out, zip-tied, and hidden from view in a way that Ian knows was probably a pain in the ass to accomplish.</p><p>The CPU sits on the far left end of the desk, and it’s clear and lit up blue from the inside, all the internal parts visible. There are boxes stacked beneath the desk that are labeled to contain headphones, extra cords, <i>capture cards</i>--whatever those are--batteries, and extra controllers. On the far right of the desk are, in a row, a PS4, PS5, Xbox One, and Xbox Series X, the systems all mounted vertically and braced to prevent tipping.</p><p>Ian has a seat in the extra gaming chair Mickey rolls behind the desk beside his, then waits and watches as Mickey plays around with a powerstrip on the floor, illuminating the blue and pink tube lights that line the wall behind the gaming station.</p><p>It takes nearly half an hour for Mickey to get set up, and he seems to take great pleasure in explaining what he’s doing to Ian, telling him about capturing audio and video, about editing, about mic settings, frame rates, and color-correction.</p><p>Ian asks questions, and Mickey answers them with surprising patience as he starts up the software and then grabs his white PS5 controller. </p><p>“Okay, so, you can do whatever. I was thinkin’ you’d be beside me on camera when I’m playing, just ‘cause you’re funny as fuck with the jump scares--”</p><p>“Fuck you.”</p><p>“--but you don’t have to be. Up to you.”</p><p>Ian blows out a heavy breath and looks around, pondering. He sucks at his bottom lip and finally shrugs. “Yeah, I’ll stay on,” he says, settling into his seat.</p><p>The two of them adjust themselves so they’re sharing an equal portion of the camera shot, and then Mickey looks at Ian, brows raised.</p><p>“Ready?”</p><p>Ian grins at him, adrenaline coursing through his veins. “Ready.”</p><p>---</p><p>When Mickey greets his audience, his body suddenly tightens, straightens, stiffens in a way Ian can feel beside him, Mickey Milkovich transforming into MICK MILK before his eyes.</p><p>His <i>voice</i> even changes, Ian notices--becomes more confident, louder, this undercurrent of sarcasm running beneath in a way that’s still there with Mickey, just not <i>always</i>, any ounce of sweetness pushed to the side.</p><p>“Hope you’re ready for more of SneakAttack’s <i>Dust to Dust</i>. If you haven’t seen Chapter 1, stop watchin’ this unless you wanna be spoiled and get on that shit. I’ve got it linked below.”</p><p>Ian awkwardly watches himself on the monitor and then abruptly breaks his gaze and glances over at Mickey, realizing he probably looks like a dumbass who’s staring blankly in front of him.</p><p>“Also,” Mickey continues, tilting his head toward Ian. “This is Ian. If you watched Chapter 1, you know we brought him in for a bit. Uhh, you guys seemed to like him.” He cuts his eyes to Ian and smirks. “Don’t really know why, but hey, thought I’d bring him on for the rest of the game, if only so you can watch him lose his shit.”</p><p>Ian rolls his eyes, and Mickey smiles as he focuses back on the camera. “Be <i>reasonably</i> nice to him in the comments.”</p><p>Ian makes a face then, brows lowered and nose scrunched and, after catching it in the monitor, Mickey looks at him. “What?”</p><p>“They don’t gotta be <i>nice</i>. I can take it.”</p><p>“They don’t gotta be nice?” Mickey shrugs. “Alright, well.” He turns back to the camera. “Do your worst, I guess.”</p><p>Mickey starts up the game and, while it loads, says, “Tell him he sucks or whatever. Call him a pussy.”</p><p>“Jesus Christ, Mickey.”</p><p>“Whatever, man. It’s what you want. You said you can take it.”</p><p>Ian laughs genuinely, and Mickey smiles, eyes flashing, as Chapter 2 of the game begins.</p><p>---</p><p>While Chapter 1 was about Alice, a little Victorian girl poisoned by her stepmother, Chapter 2 is about a middle-aged man named Harvey who lived in the mansion in the 1920s.</p><p>Though the furnishings and decorations in the home change with the time jump, the objective of the game is still the same: evade Harvey’s ghost for long enough to determine how he died.</p><p>And like Chapter 1, the game goes a solid half hour without a single jump scare, lulling Ian and Mickey into a sense of calm as they absorb the beginnings of the story. </p><p>Ian doesn’t talk much to start, tending to hang back and watch. But about thirty minutes in, when Mickey struggles with a puzzle, Ian bites his lip, considers, and then goes for it, leaning in and giving him tips.</p><p>Mickey resists at first, but eventually, he starts actively talking to Ian rather than just the camera, and by the time the first jump scare hits, Ian feels like he’s an active participant in the Let’s Play. He chats with Mickey about initial theories and gives back as much shit as he gets when he gives a hard jerk to the protagonist examining a black and white photo of Harvey, only to have the image unexpectedly wink.</p><p>Mickey laughs at that--calls it <i>fuckin’ stupid</i>--and Ian flips him off.</p><p>They play for another hour, getting well and truly immersed in the game, and then pause for a bathroom break. </p><p>The nice thing about recording Let’s Plays versus streams is that, as there are no live viewers, you can take multiple breaks, can redo things if you need to. Several times, Mickey’s said into the camera, speaking to his future self, “Cut that part--just use the first and last attempts.” Once, Ian makes a face at him when he cracks a suicide joke that was probably a little too extreme for YouTube, and Mickey says, “A-list says cut the joke.”</p><p>“A-list says you’re gonna get fuckin’ canceled if you use it,” Ian counters.</p><p>Mickey makes a jerk-off motion with his hand and starts back up the game.</p><p>---</p><p>About two hours in, Chapter 2 gets <i>weirdly</i> and awkwardly sexual. Apparently, Harvey enjoyed his prostitutes, and when the game reaches a scene similar to the chase sequence in Chapter 1--this time in which the protagonist is being pursued by the ghosts of half-naked women who are trying to possess him and cut his throat--Mickey hands over the controller.</p><p>“Your turn, ladies man,” he jokes, and Ian flips him off but takes it.</p><p>“This is awkward as fuck,” he complains, navigating the protagonist through a series of secret passageways while grotesque, floaty, and semi-transparent women with their tits out chase him. </p><p>If they catch him, there are a series of rising moans in the most weirdly porny, offensively oversexualized way, followed by a single slash to the neck with a knife.</p><p>“Jesus Christ,” Mickey says the fourth time Ian gets captured, stealing the controller and trying, himself. </p><p>When he isn’t successful, Ian <i>ha</i>!s him and steals it back.</p><p>“Okay,” Mickey says during Ian’s eighth run, voice gone all serious. “SneakAttack, like, what the fuck? <i>Charlie</i>, what the fuck? If I wanted to see ghost titties, I’d do a creative search on PornHub.”</p><p>Ian cracks up at that, throwing himself off his game, and for the next ten seconds, the two of them are laughing like kids.</p><p>It takes a grand total of eleven combined tries to beat the ghost prostitutes. When Ian’s finally successful, he <i>whoop</i>s loudly and smacks Mickey’s shoulder over and over, excited. </p><p>“Congratulations,” Mickey intones. "I only had to listen to like, twenty freaky orgasms.”</p><p>Ian gives a high-pitched moan, and Mickey looks at him. “Holy fuck,” he says, a smile threatening to break out on his mouth. “Cut <i>that</i> shit. You really want my subscribers to hear what you sound like when you come?”</p><p>“<i>Fuck</i>, I hope I don’t sound like <i>that</i>.”</p><p>Mickey shrugs. “Depends on what I’m doin’ to ya.”</p><p>“Oh my God.” Ian stares directly into the camera. “Cut <i>all of this</i>.”</p><p>Mickey grins, his teeth shining with it. Cute as hell.</p><p>---</p><p>Chapter 2, while not completely devoid of jump scares, is more sparing with them than Chapter 1, the overall tone an attempt at twisted and grossly sexually charged rather than dread-filled.</p><p>Ian doesn’t really find himself surprised too often, the game only getting two good, noticeable jumps out of him.</p><p>Harvey turns out to have been a murderer of prostitutes who was quite literally ripped apart by four of them in an attempt at avenging their friends, and in the final boss battle, he develops into a bloated, necrotic, phallic-shaped monster in some bad metaphor of both lust and gluttony.</p><p>“Are you fuckin’ serious?” Mickey complains afterward as the game prompts him to move on to Chapter 3. He puts down the controller and stares directly into the camera. “SneakAttack, <i>Charlie</i>, get your shit together. This chapter was fuckin’ <i>ass</i>, man. What was the reason for all the moaning chicks? This was like early Lara Croft shit. Chapter 3 better be better, that’s all I’m sayin’.”</p><p>Mickey turns to Ian, who’s wearing an expression of <i>Oh, shit!</i> in reaction to Mickey’s boldness.</p><p>“Thoughts, A-list?”</p><p>Ian shrugs. Purses his lips. “Uhh, yeah. Basically what you said. Plus, the story was just kinda fucked up. Like, I get it, Harvey was a shitty human being. I know we’re not supposed to root for him or feel bad for him like we did Alice. But it’s nice to be able to give like, <i>some</i> sort of a fuck about the enemy. Otherwise, the game’s boring.”</p><p>He turns back to Mickey, indicating he’s done, and Mickey nods at him, then turns back to the camera.</p><p>“Cool. ‘kay, so that’s Chapter 2. Hopefully Chapter 3’s better. Stay tuned.”</p><p>Ian leans his elbow on the desk as Mickey signs off, telling viewers to let him know what they think about the chapter and that they “shouldn’t forget to call Ian a pussy in the comments.”</p><p>Ian flips Mickey off, and Mickey grins before stopping the recording.</p><p>And that’s that. Holy shit.</p><p>Ian pulls off his headphones and leans back in his chair, stretching. </p><p>“Damn,” he comments, and Mickey elbows him.</p><p>“How was it?”</p><p>“Mmm. Fun.” He pauses. Considers. “<i>Really</i> fun, actually. I like that much better than the streams.”</p><p>Mickey pulls off his own headphones. “Yeah?”</p><p>“Yeah. Not as like, rushed or whatever. I dunno. It was chill.” He yawns. Scratches his jaw. “<i>Also</i>, how the fuck have you kept from gettin’ canceled? You said like, fifty things I’m gonna need you to cut.”</p><p>“I wasn’t born yesterday, man. I know what I can get away with.”</p><p>“You said <i>fag</i> like twelve times.”</p><p>Mickey rolls his eyes and starts working on saving his recording and checking to make sure everything worked as planned. “I always cut like, a full hour out of my recordings. It’s cool.”</p><p>Ian gives a resigned chuckle and stands. “Yeah, yeah.”</p><p>He checks his watch. It’s nearly four. “We still doin’ the Hollywood sign thing?” he asks, shaking out his sleepy legs.</p><p>Mickey looks over at him. “Uh, yeah, if you still want to.”</p><p>Something on his face tells Ian he genuinely isn’t sure whether he’d still want to, and it’s silly and so, so very wrong.</p><p>“I want to,” he says, reassuring.</p><p>Mickey looks up at him and nods.</p><p>---<br/>
---</p><p>It’s funny seeing Mickey so clearly incognito. </p><p>He’s changed into a light gray long sleeved T-shirt and a mustard-colored beanie and has taken out his earrings. If you know his face, you’ll know him, but with the lighter colors and without his trademark eraser-sized studs, from feet away, he could be anyone.</p><p>The two of them pack into Mickey’s car and drive about fifteen minutes, stopping and parking on the side of the road just outside a small residential area in Beachwood Canyon.</p><p>It’s surreal being there, and Ian immediately takes a deep breath, resting his arms on the roof of Mickey’s car and peering ahead of them, where he can see where the paved drive veers off to a wide, dirt trailhead.</p><p>“So I don’t do that hiking shit,” Mickey comments, nodding down the road. “But whatever, Miley, you gotta see your fuckin’ sign.”</p><p>Ian grins and shoves away from Mickey’s car, and the pair make their way toward the trail.</p><p>It’s crowded, but not alarmingly so, as it’s a random weekday in March rather than a weekend or summer month. There are a few tour groups, several teens taking selfies, older couples with dogs, plus some families with outdoor strollers.</p><p>The Hollywood sign sits on the hill in the distance, bright white against the green of the mountain, and Ian has to pause when he gets his first relatively close glimpse, placing his hands on his hips and peering up at it. </p><p>Mickey bumps their shoulders together, a <i>come on</i> gesture, and Ian glances toward him, a smile working its way onto his face.</p><p>The hike’s relatively simple, and Ian and Mickey walk casually together, two feet apart, and chat.</p><p>“You ever done this?” Ian asks as they check a mounted map and head left onto a new trail, nodding toward the sign in the distance, which is growing closer and clearer the further they climb.</p><p>Mickey swipes his mouth with his thumb and shrugs. “When I first moved here. Mandy came to help, and we did all that touristy shit ‘cause she’s fuckin’ annoying.”</p><p>“So you moved here when?”</p><p>Mickey scrunches up his face, doing the math. “Uhh, two thousaaaand...seventeen? Like, October.”</p><p>“When you were eighteen?”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>The two of them are quiet for a minute. Mickey kicks at the dirt with his Vans hightop, turning the black toe a dusty red. “Turned eighteen in August, got the fuck outta Chicago.”</p><p>Ian turns to look at him, watches him worry his bottom lip between his teeth.</p><p>“Why?” </p><p>Mickey shrugs. “I dunno. Ain’t nothin’ there for me.”</p><p>Ian nods. Lets the moment hang there, quiet. They walk about twenty more feet before he asks, “D’you like LA?”</p><p>“No.” Mickey chuckles, and Ian tilts his head to see him scratch at his chin, his smile fading. “I dunno. That’s not true.” He shrugs. “Just...not really sure I like anywhere, y’know?”</p><p>“Yeah.” Ian gets it. He gets it a <i>ridiculous</i> amount, really. </p><p>He likes Chicago. He loves his home. He’s certain that’s not what Mickey means, and it’s what he thinks Mickey means that settles in his gut. It’s the feeling of not belonging anywhere, searching and never finding what you want. Where you need to be. Where you <i>want</i> to be.</p><p>Constantly wandering and looking and never being satisfied. </p><p>They continue their trek up the trail. The sun’s going down, the sky turning beautiful and burning an orange glow onto everything. Up the hill, the Hollywood sign looms close, closer. </p><p>Back to the left, as they wind their way up, the trail getting moderately steeper--enough that Ian’s breath picks up just the tiniest amount--they can see a tremendous view of Downtown Los Angeles, the city purple-gray beneath the orangey-gold of the sky.</p><p>They stop at a U in the trail, move off to the side, and Ian takes out his phone to snap pictures. Mickey watches him do it, his brow raised, and, what the hell, Ian turns his phone on Mickey and takes a picture of him.</p><p>Strangely, it's the first time he’s ever done that.</p><p>They’ve been hooking up for eight months now, and Ian’s never taken a single picture of him.</p><p>He’s almost expecting Mickey to ask him to delete it, to tell him he can’t have pictures of him on his phone for some ridiculous reason.</p><p>Instead, Mickey just makes a face at him like anyone would make a face at a person who took their picture without giving them a chance to prepare, and Ian bounces his brows at him and puts his phone away.</p><p>They continue to climb the hill, the sky darkening to a deep, beautiful pink, and eventually reach a point in which there are groups of tourists taking photos, the <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/77859545acf559c38094d5f5332094f8/44a6cac381bc7d4a-4c/s1280x1920/e5a3ebd5241ed715209f0d4d75102cc2d9ff2e58.jpg">Hollywood sign</a> relatively close and in clear, nearly head-on view.</p><p>“Alright, get in there, Miley,” Mickey says, nodding toward the sign, and Ian chuckles but does what he’s told.</p><p>And he means to maybe give Mickey his phone to take a picture, but Mickey takes out his own, instead. It’s probably for the best, anyway, as he has a 12 Pro Max and Ian’s just got a refurbished 10 he bought off eBay for a hundred bucks.</p><p>But Ian can’t help but feel warmth in his belly when he thinks about Mickey wanting to take pictures of him. He stands where the tourists had been standing before they inevitably moved on, and Mickey takes a few different shots--vertical and horizontal--before indicating that he’s done.</p><p>Ian returns to Mickey and asks to see, and the two of them stand close together, looking down at Mickey’s phone.</p><p>The pictures are beautiful in quality, and Ian looks reasonably decent. He bites his lip as Mickey swipes through them, then tilts his head to look down into his face.</p><p>“Hey,” he says, nodding down at his phone. </p><p>Mickey raises his brows in question.</p><p>“Let’s take some selfies.”</p><p>Mickey scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Wanna make a fuckin’ TikTok, too?”</p><p>“Hush.” Ian takes Mickey’s phone out of his hand and puts the camera in selfie mode.</p><p>He bullies him into it, mostly, having to shove him around like a kid who refuses to take a family photo. Eventually, however, with a heavy sigh, Mickey relents and allows himself to be photographed.</p><p>They take a picture with the Hollywood sign behind them, then another with the city and <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/9c9e4260ef4af34cbb8868c7b6af82f7/99f0ca12535b7b60-b7/s500x750/a77663d25a6350bb0080540ad21899f4513338f5.jpg">sunset</a> in the background.</p><p>Before Mickey’s able to take back his phone, Ian taps over to iMessage, scrolls down to find his own name, which is surprisingly only the third one down even though they haven’t messaged since the night before, and texts himself the pictures.</p><p>“Do you need help using <i>my phone</i>, there?” Mickey asks, voice a grumble. </p><p>Ian grins at him and hands the device back. “Shut up,” he says, turning around to start making his way back down the trail.</p><p>After a moment of silence, he hears the crunch of Mickey’s feet in the dirt as he follows him.</p><p>---</p><p>It’s dark by the time they make it back to the house, having ordered and picked up a pizza on their way.</p><p>Mickey kicks off his shoes once they’re on the second floor and just leaves them at the foot of the staircase for someone to trip over later. He slips around in his socked feet, carrying the pizza box, and drops it down on the coffee table in the living room.</p><p>After removing his own shoes and putting them safely out of the way, Ian joins him.</p><p>They sit together on the couch, eating directly from the pizza box, and watch the second episode of the <i>Nightstalker</i> documentary on Netflix, which Mickey had apparently started earlier in the week.</p><p>“Uhhh.” Ian eyes Mickey warily and takes a slurp off one of the styrofoam cups of Pepsi they’d gotten with the pizza. “Tryna tell me something?”</p><p>“That I’m a serial killer?”</p><p>“Maaaybe.”</p><p>Mickey shrugs but doesn’t comment further, and Ian kicks his socked foot with his own.</p><p>They finish up the pizza and then sink back into the couch cushions, side by side, watching the rest of the hour-long episode. Ian drinks his pop and yeah, okay, he’s pretty sure this is the same documentary series he’d almost watched with Mandy and Hunter, only to be third-wheeled into oblivion by their gross make-out session.</p><p>He tilts his head toward Mickey, who’s texting someone. His hair’s all fluffy from removing his beanie, and Ian wants to smooth it back. He thinks about how it’s been almost twenty-four hours since he’s arrived in Los Angeles, and he and Mickey haven’t yet had sex.</p><p>Is Mickey wanting it, maybe? Too embarrassed to ask for it? </p><p>Ian’s forgotten that he got tested. That he’s negative. That they can fuck without condoms now, maybe, if Mickey’s negative, too.</p><p>Should he tell him?</p><p>
  <i>Hey, so, just wanted to let you know I got tested on Monday. I’m good to go, so we can forgo the condoms if you’re also good.</i>
</p><p>Dumb.</p><p>Ian must make a noise, as Mickey suddenly looks at him, brow raised. <i>The fuck you want?</i></p><p>“Hey,” Ian says aloud, a start.</p><p>Mickey rolls his eyes. “Hey, yourself.”</p><p>“Thanks for today. That was kinda cool.”</p><p>A soft look passes over Mickey’s face--just briefly, like a single ray of sunshine on a cloudy day. “Which part?”</p><p>“All of it.”</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>“Yeah.” Ian turns to the TV, and for a moment, he and Mickey simply watch the episode credits roll. Mickey leans over, grabs the Apple TV remote, and stops Netflix from automatically moving to the next episode.</p><p>Ian turns back to Mickey and continues his initial train of thought. “‘cept for the moaning ghosts thing. That was kinda fucked up.”</p><p>Mickey snorts and tosses the remote back onto the coffee table. “Would you fuck a ghost?”</p><p>“<i>What</i>?”</p><p>“C’mon, man.”</p><p>Ian grins and shrugs, eyes looking up and to the left as he thinks. “What kinda ghost? Like, see-through, bleeding dead people or like, the ones that look like they did when they were alive?”</p><p>“See-through.”</p><p>“No!”</p><p>Mickey eyes him. “The hottest guy you’ve ever seen, just see-through. He died of like, a heart-attack so there’s no gaping wounds and shit.”</p><p>“The hottest guy I’ve ever seen?”</p><p>“Yup.”</p><p>“Maybe.” Ian chuckles. “Will my dick like, go through him? How’s that even work?”</p><p>“Guess you could like, fuck him and see your dick through his see-through belly.”</p><p>Ian shoves him. “That’s fucked up, man.”</p><p>“Might be kinda hot.”</p><p>“Gross.” </p><p>Mickey cracks up then, tilting to the side and collapsing onto a throw pillow. “C’mon.”</p><p>“What, do <i>you</i> wanna fuck a ghost?”</p><p>“Depends.”</p><p>“On what?”</p><p>Mickey licks his bottom lip, a flush working its way onto his cheeks. He shifts around and, in a move that sends Ian into stitches, drops to his knees on the floor and puts his hands on the front of Ian’s jeans. “You a ghost?”</p><p>“<i>Mickey</i>.” Ian relaxes into the couchback, belly shaking with giggles. “Mickey, that was so fuckin’ bad.”</p><p>He sucks in his stomach so Mickey can more easily open his jeans, then lifts his hips so he can pull his pants and his underwear down to mid-thigh. </p><p>“Shut up,” Mickey grumbles, getting his hand on Ian's dick.</p><p>---</p><p>Maybe it’s the new angle, but he’s definitely getting better at it. Mickey strokes Ian until he’s fully hard and then takes him deep, his mouth a hot, wet suction that makes Ian close his eyes and moan, a breath.</p><p>He touches his hand gingerly to Mickey’s hair, running his fingers through the fluffy, disheveled locks, combing them back, back and Mickey sucks him and squeezes at his hip.</p><p><i>How many guys have you been with?</i> Ian thinks, cracking open his eyes to peer down at the other man, thinking about that soft, pink mouth around another guy’s cock and getting irrationally jealous--jealous that Mickey could potentially be having sex with another guy who isn’t him. That Mickey could’ve maybe just been rusty, could’ve maybe banged a ton of guys before, that maybe Mandy was right.</p><p>It’s unfair, Ian knows. Shitty of him, really. He, himself, doesn’t even know how many guys he’s fucked, so why should he feel stabs of jealousy and annoyance over Mickey doing it, too?</p><p>He gasps as Mickey works his mouth on him. Runs his fingers through his hair. Mickey drags his right hand from Ian’s hip down to his thigh and squeezes at him, moves it to his groin and scritches his nails through Ian’s pubes.</p><p>“Fuck,” Ian whispers, tilting his head back. </p><p>Mickey pulls off for a minute, and Ian almost says it, almost murmurs, <i>We can do it raw. Get up here. Ride me.</i></p><p>But then Mickey’s lowering his head again, and Ian’s gasping up at the ceiling, eyes squeezed shut.</p><p>It only takes a few minutes more. Mickey’s jaw gets tired, and he pauses again, swipes his hand across his mouth and takes a moment to rest, but then he goes back down, and he’s fast, fast, hand stroking in counterpoint to his bobs, and then Ian’s coming in his mouth without forewarning.</p><p>“Shit, sorry, sorry,” he whispers, bending forward, then backward as the pleasure overtakes him.</p><p>He feels Mickey swallow around him, and he thinks he might die. He pulls up the front of his shirt and paws at his own stomach, then gets his fingers up to his nipples, indulging in the pleasure as much as he can.</p><p>Ian blows out a breath afterward and glances down. Mickey’s got the neck of his shirt up, wiping at his mouth, and it’s just about the hottest thing Ian’s ever seen.</p><p>“C’mere,” he whispers, motioning for Mickey to stand.</p><p>Once he’s up, Ian helps him get off his pants and shirt, then drags him onto his lap.</p><p>“Fuckin’ a ghost,” Ian says, rolling his eyes, and Mickey grasps the hem of his T-shirt and pulls it up and off so they’re both shirtless and pressed together.</p><p>Daring, Ian lowers his mouth to Mickey’s neck. Gets his hand on his dick.</p><p>Mickey smells like sunshine, like a sunset hike, like pizza and laughter and cigarettes.</p><p>Ian kisses him briefly, just at the slope where his neck meets his shoulder, then holds his mouth on him, open, tongue darting out and breath hot, as he works him in his fist.</p><p>Mickey’s pretty far along already, the blowjob having gotten him worked up to leaking, and he pants and makes sweet little keening noises as Ian laves at his neck and throat with his tongue.</p><p>He’s hot and wet in his hand, and Ian can’t help but lean back and look down, watching the messy, shiny tip of him appear and disappear in his fist, can’t help but bend over and press the top of his head to Mickey’s chest so that he can get an up-close view, watching as Mickey’s arousal ramps up, up, up, listening to the <i>shh</i>ushes of his breath in his lungs as he pants.</p><p>Mickey groans, and Ian leans back again, then in, mouth to his neck, and sucks on him until he mumbles, “Oh fuck, fuck,” hisses through his teeth, and comes in several surges that Ian watches shoot out, his fist slowing but still moving, drawing out as much pleasure from Mickey’s body as he can.</p><p>They collapse there together, afterward. Ian leans back into the cushions and Mickey leans into him, their bodies sweaty and warm.</p><p>Ian gets his arm around Mickey’s back and rubs at him with his clean hand, feels the bumps of his spine, the smoothness of his skin in places, the slight indentations and roughness of scars marring his perfect flesh in others.</p><p>Without thinking, Ian slides his hand up near Mickey’s armpit, to the patch of what he thinks are cigarette burns. Touches at them.</p><p>Mickey relaxes into it for a long moment but then moves his shoulder, wanting Ian to stop.</p><p>He does. Considers apologizing.</p><p>Mickey sits up straight, eyes him for a moment like he wants to say something, but eventually simply sighs heavily and climbs off Ian’s lap.</p><p>They clean up with wet paper towels from the kitchen, get re-dressed, then sink back into the couch in the exact position they’d been in before the ghost sex conversation, the two of them slurping away at their pops and watching TV.</p><p>After a few minutes, Ian checks his watch. 10:16 Chicago time. 8:16 LA time. He stands and, excusing himself awkwardly, heads upstairs to Mickey’s bathroom to take his meds.</p><p>It doesn’t occur to him until he’s swallowing his pills with a few slurps of Pepsi that it was probably a fucking weird thing to take his drink cup upstairs with him. He was planning on maybe passing this off as him going upstairs to take a shit, but well, who drinks Pepsi on the toilet?</p><p>Ian blows out a breath, puts his pill organizer away, and watches himself in the mirror as he finishes the rest of his drink.</p><p>When he saunters back downstairs five minutes later, Mickey gives him a searching look, his eyes soft and curious.</p><p>Ian shrugs at him, considers saying, <i>You might wanna give it a minute before you go upstairs</i>, but doesn’t.</p><p>---</p><p>At half past eight, Mickey goes upstairs to do some editing in his gaming room, and Ian stays downstairs and heads out onto the balcony. He stretches out in the chaise Mo had been in earlier and works on setting up a Close Friends list on Instagram.</p><p>He adds his family members who are on the platform--Liam, Debbie, Carl--then Mandy and Mo. It feels a little pathetic that he only has five people to add to the list, but those are the only people he’s close with in a way that’s going to impact what stories he allows them to see.</p><p>Biting his lip, he posts the selfies of him and Mickey to his Close Friends story, then, after a long moment of contemplation, posts one of the pictures Mickey had taken of him in front of the Hollywood sign to his public story. What the hell. He’s going to end up on Mickey’s YouTube channel, anyway, so why not make it public that he’s in Los Angeles? He could be there for all sorts of reasons.</p><p>Out of curiosity, he does check Twitter twenty minutes later, just to see, but either no one’s posted anything about it or he can’t find it in a casual search.</p><p>He hates being nervous about this shit. Mickey’s approach to it is that it’s <i>whatever</i>, that fans are fans and fans are going to talk. As long as it’s harmless and unintrusive, he doesn’t care that much.</p><p>And well, it’s fine. Maybe Ian’ll get used to it. He just really hates that he can’t do something as simple as post a picture of himself in LA so that people like his work friends can see without second-guessing himself or having a tiny, inkling of a worry that people on Twitter are going to talk about him.</p><p>He’s excited to be in LA, and not just because of Mickey, and he’d ideally like to post all kinds of things about it. He probably shouldn’t, though, so he doesn’t. </p><p>Instead, he pulls up the selfies he’d taken with Mickey and scans his eyes over every inch of Mickey’s precious face.</p><p>In the first, with their backs to the Hollywood sign, he’s wearing a frown that looks like it’s a second from turning into a smile, his eyes gleaming with amusement even though he was trying to pretend like he wanted to be anywhere but there.</p><p>In the second, with their backs to the city, Mickey’s allowed himself a sweet, closed-mouth smile. </p><p>It’s one of Ian’s favorite pictures. If he and Mickey were more than what they are, he’d set it as his lock screen in a heartbeat. </p><p>---</p><p>When he goes up to bed at just past ten, body still on Chicago time and eyes drooping because it feels like it should be midnight, he knocks on the open door of Mickey’s gaming room to let him know.</p><p>Mickey’s got his headphones on and is drinking an energy drink from the Monster mini-fridge he has in the corner of the room.</p><p>“Hey,” Ian says, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m gonna hit the sack. Still runnin’ two hours ahead.”</p><p>Mickey pulls his headphones off one ear and nods.</p><p>“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Night.”</p><p>He looks thoughtful for a moment as Ian gives him a wave, but by the time Ian pushes away from the door frame, the look is gone.</p><p>---</p><p>Ian undresses in Mickey’s room. He pulls on a clean T-shirt--a teal and gray striped one he’s had for years--and climbs in bed without bothering to put sweats on over his boxers.</p><p>He’s brought his phone with him this time, and he snuggles down in the duvet and opens Instagram. He’s gained about twenty followers over the past couple hours, and when he checks his tagged photos, he sees that two people have taken screenshots of his story post, have edited them and posted them to their Mickey-centric accounts.</p><p>That’s kinda weird, honestly. Ian wonders if people are going to do that with any random picture he takes, even if it’s something as mundane as him and one of his siblings.</p><p>He presses his lips together, and before closing out of the app, decides to check who’s viewed his public story.</p><p>Out of his 1,268 followers, 316 have viewed it.</p><p>Curious, he scrolls through the list. He doesn’t quite know what he’s looking for. <i>Maybe</i> <b>nightmarehour</b> with a blue check. He doesn’t see it. Mickey hasn’t seen his story.</p><p>That’s fine. Ian sets his phone on the nightstand, pulls the duvet up under his chin, and closes his eyes.</p><p>---</p><p>He hasn’t even had a chance to fall asleep yet when Mickey comes in barely fifteen minutes later. To let him know he’s awake and doesn’t have to sneak, Ian pulls the duvet down under his armpits so Mickey can see his open eyes.</p><p>“How much should I like, <i>hide</i> or whatever?” he asks quietly after a moment of watching Mickey change into a red T-shirt and a pair of cut-off sweats.</p><p>Mickey raises a brow at him like he doesn’t understand. “Hide?”</p><p>Ian sits up and criss-crosses his legs under the duvet. “Yeah, like, I dunno. What’s okay to post on social media? I don’t wanna make people suspicious or whatever, but I kinda wanna post pictures of LA.”</p><p>Mickey purses his lips like he’s thinking as he wanders into the bathroom.</p><p>“Post whatever you want,” he says, and after a pause, starts to pee. He’s silent until he finishes, but then after flushing, continues with, “Not of like, <i>me</i>, I guess, but post your shit. Who gives a fuck?”</p><p>“<b>mickmilksource</b> took a screenshot of a story post I made of me at the Hollywood sign, made it black and white, and posted it on their Instagram. And <i>tagged me</i>.”</p><p>The sink turns on, then off. Mickey comes to stand in the bathroom doorway, his toothbrush in hand, and smirks. “Ooooh noooo, they didn’t <i>tag</i> you.”</p><p>Ian flips him off.</p><p>Mickey switches on the electric toothbrush and disappears into the bathroom again.</p><p>Once he’s done and his face is washed, he cuts the light and comes to bed. Ian lies back down and scoots to the edge, giving him room.</p><p>“I dunno, man,” Mickey says, a continuation of their conversation. “You can make your shit private if you want. Y’know. Some people make a separate private account and keep their public one for fans.”</p><p>“Would you follow me on a private account?”</p><p>“<i>Chhh</i>.”</p><p>Ian turns onto his side and watches Mickey in the dark. “You know you’re just being petty, now.”</p><p>“Oh, am I?”</p><p>“Yeah. There’s more reasons now that you <i>should</i> follow me than you <i>shouldn’t</i>. It’s honestly kinda weird that you don’t.”</p><p>“Fuck you, what are the reasons?”</p><p>Ian <i>hmm</i>s. Smiles. “Well, for starters, we’re currently doing business together.”</p><p>“That so?”</p><p>“Yep. <i>Then</i>, I’m staying at your house for like, five days. You came to my house for Christmas. Your little sister’s my best friend.”</p><p>Mickey kicks him under the covers.</p><p>Ian stares at him. Scoots closer. Then closer. He reaches his hand out and places it on the waistband of Mickey’s shorts. Toys with the elastic.</p><p>“Then there’s the thing about me being your most favorite sex partner ever.”</p><p>Mickey snorts loudly and shoves Ian away, sending him into a breathy chuckle. </p><p>“My <i>most favorite sex partner ever</i>? Who the fuck says?”</p><p>“<i>I</i> the fuck say.” That sounds stupid. Ian rolls his eyes at it.</p><p>“You do, huh?”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>
  <i>How many guys have you fucked? How many guys are you fucking <b>now</b>?</i>
</p><p>Mickey stares at him in the darkness, his eyes shining. It takes every ounce of strength in Ian’s body to keep him from closing the gap and kissing him.</p><p>What if he did? How bad could it hurt?</p><p>Would Mickey kick him out? Send him home?</p><p>Ian sniffs. Shoves Mickey a little--just gently, just for something to do.</p><p>“<i>Chhh</i>.” Mickey rolls onto his back. “Whatever, A-list.”</p><p>Whatever.</p><p>---<br/>
---</p><p>To Ian’s surprise, Mickey’s still in bed with him the next morning. Granted, it’s early, the digital alarm clock reading 7:58.</p><p>With a yawn, Ian rolls onto his side to watch him for a while. He’s absolutely, completely beautiful, his face angelic in sleep, mouth slack, eyelashes long and pretty against his cheeks.</p><p>His breath’s a little morning-funky, but it’s okay. He’s human. Ian would kiss him anyway.</p><p>Without thinking, he reaches out and brushes a lock of hair off his forehead, the sweet little curl that tends to droop down when he hasn’t used gel.</p><p>Mickey jerks with it, his breath coming in a quick gasp, and Ian tugs his hand back as if burned.</p><p>“Sorry,” he whispers with a wince when Mickey’s eyes open.</p><p>Mickey stares at him for a long moment, eyes hard though sleepy, before he turns his head and yawns loudly. “The fuck you doin’?” he asks, pulling the duvet up and almost over his head.</p><p>“Just…”</p><p>What? <i>Touching you. Thinking you’re sweet. Wanting you.</i></p><p>Ian doesn’t finish. Instead, he stretches out under the covers. </p><p>“Time is it?”</p><p>“Eight.”</p><p>Mickey yawns again, obnoxiously loud, and rolls onto his back. “Gotta blow me or something,” he says, causing Ian to snort.</p><p>“Uhhh, why?”</p><p>“You just woke me up at fuckin’ eight in the morning.”</p><p>“So? Go back to sleep.”</p><p>“<i>Chhh</i>.”</p><p>Ian pokes at him. “What?”</p><p>Mickey reaches a hand over and smacks it against Ian’s belly. Ian kicks him. </p><p>And then, well, then Mickey’s launched himself onto Ian, and they’re wrestling in the Los Angeles morning light under a duvet that probably costs more than Ian’s entire wardrobe.</p><p>Ian gets his arms around Mickey’s waist and squeezes, giving a strong heave and trying his hardest to throw Mickey off, but Mickey presses down on his shoulders, keeping him pinned.</p><p>“Fuck you,” Ian groans, struggling, and that gives Mickey enough time and room to reach down and tickle at Ian’s ribs.</p><p>“Nonononono! Fuck you, fuck you!” Ian squeals like a kid, fucking <i>hating</i> being tickled, and Mickey digs his fingers in even harder, moving them up his ribs to his armpits.</p><p>“Oh my God, you suck, you <i>suck</i>!”</p><p>So goes their morning. Ian and Mickey wrestle and tickle under the covers, which turns to Mickey dropping his hips, which turns to Ian’s <i>oh</i>s turning pleasured rather than exclamatory.</p><p>Which turns to Mickey finally relenting and letting Ian get on top. This time, though, it’s not wrestling Ian wants--not pinning, at least in the literal sense.</p><p>They get their clothes off, toss T-shirts onto the floor, kick shorts and underwear to the foot of the bed.</p><p>It’s been a couple weeks, and Ian’s suddenly ravenous for it, wanting to tear Mickey apart, wanting to <i>consume</i> him.</p><p>“Lube, lube, lube,” he murmurs, reaching out a hand, and Mickey quickly makes a grab for his nightstand, takes out that half-flattened tube of Astroglide Ian had seen earlier, and slaps it into his hand. </p><p>The prep’s probably faster than it should be, less than it could be. Ian works in his fingers, one-by-one, sucking at Mickey’s lower back, and all too soon, Mickey’s murmuring, “Okay, okay, get the fuck in me.”</p><p>“You sure?”</p><p>“Yeah, I’m good.”</p><p>Ian gives Mickey one more thrust with three, presses an affectionate kiss to his left cheek, and pulls out.</p><p>Releases a hard breath.</p><p>He reaches for his own cock and holds it for a moment, looking down at its bareness as Mickey outstretches an arm and makes a grab for the unopened box of condoms.</p><p>“Hey,” Ian says, sitting back on his heels.</p><p>Mickey drops the condom box on the bed and sinks down onto his side so he can see Ian easily. “What?”</p><p>“Uhh.” He swallows, a nervous energy beginning to sizzle its way across his skin. His belly twists. He fidgets. “When’s the last time you got tested?”</p><p>Mickey swipes his thumb over his lips and looks off into the distance--at something past Ian’s head. He shrugs. “I dunno. Like a year ago.”</p><p>“Oh.” Ian swallows heavily. Drops his hands across his lap, feeling strangely like he needs to hide himself, like he’s in the fucking Garden of Eden and has just realized he’s naked.</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“Uh, got tested before I came out here, so.”</p><p>Mickey stares at him, a bright flush working its way up his neck and chest. He looks away, to the side, then back. “Cool.”</p><p>“Yeah.” Ian sucks his bottom lip. “Cool.”</p><p>It’s ridiculous. Mickey’s strangely nervous, chewing at the insides of his cheeks, and with a heavy sigh, Ian decides to have mercy on him.</p><p>“Yeah. Everything was good, so we can. Y’know. I mean, if you’re clean, too.”</p><p>“I’m good, man.”</p><p>“‘kay.”</p><p>Ian reaches for the tube of Astroglide, and Mickey gets back up on his knees, facing the headboard.</p><p>
  <i>When’s the last time you had sex with someone who wasn’t me? </i>
</p><p>
  <i>How many guys have you fucked?</i>
</p><p>“Hey,” Ian says, making no move to open the tube of lube.</p><p>Mickey sighs. “What?”</p><p>Ian watches Mickey’s back for a moment, brain a whirr, before touching his hand to his side, pulling.</p><p>He doesn’t like this. Something about this he doesn’t like. He wants him…</p><p>Mickey drops down and rolls over onto his back.</p><p>Yeah.</p><p>Ian leans down. Places a hand on Mickey’s hip.</p><p>Like this.</p><p>He stretches himself over him, lets himself relax, his weight on Mickey, whose body he’s about to enter without a condom. Ian smiles. Soft. Bringing the moment from a playful wrestle to something warm.</p><p>“What?” Mickey asks, but it’s soft, too.</p><p>Ian would like to kiss him.</p><p>Instead, he’s stupid. Naive. Whispers, “How many guys have you fucked?”</p><p>Mickey’s face goes from sweetness to something else--something Ian can’t pin down.</p><p>He shrugs.</p><p>
  <i>Why won’t you tell me?</i>
</p><p>“C’mon,” Ian encourages, lips pulling up in a grin. “I’m about to get my dick in you raw. The least you can do is tell me about all the hot guys you’ve been with, Mr. Celebrity.”</p><p>He’s going for silly, going for something that’ll make Mickey laugh, smile, relent. Instead, Mickey turns his face away.</p><p>“Why?” he asks, voice rough. “That’s nobody’s fuckin’ business.”</p><p>“I mean. It’s <i>kinda</i> my business.”</p><p>“How’s it your business?”</p><p>Ian rolls off Mickey, just a bit, his weight resting to the right of his body rather than on top of him.</p><p>“I think you’re supposed to talk about this shit before you fuck without condoms, right?”</p><p>Not that Ian’d know. Not that it’s ever mattered before.</p><p>It matters now, though. Ian wants to know everything about Mickey. He’s <i>desperate</i> to know. He wants to know every time he’s ever had sex. Every position. Every noise he’s made while coming.</p><p>“Why’s it matter?” Mickey asks, voice flipping like a lightswitch from that sweet nervousness to something harder, something that reminds Ian of the first few times they hooked up. Bent at the waist. <i>Get the fuck on me</i>. </p><p>“I’m clean, you’re clean. Let’s just fuck.”</p><p>Ian sighs. Frustrated.</p><p>It’s not actually about sex, though, really. Ian doesn’t care--not really, not truly--if Mickey’s fucked fifty guys or if he’s fucked zero. But the fact that he won’t tell him is fucking annoying. It’s the same as the shit from months ago, Mickey refusing to tell Ian why he was in town, where he grew up, just one little thing about his life.</p><p>“Fine,” Ian says, pushing up. Reaching for the lube.</p><p>Mickey studies him, his brows lowered. “How many guys have <i>you</i> fucked?” he asks, not leaving it alone even after Ian’s resigned to move on.</p><p>And well, okay. Whatever. He deserves that.</p><p>Ian licks his lips.</p><p><i>I don’t know</i>.</p><p>He watches Mickey’s face. Doesn’t say anything.</p><p>“So why’s it okay for you to ask me that shit and get all pissed when I won’t answer, but you won’t answer the same fuckin’ question?”</p><p><i>Because it’s not the same</i>, Ian wants to say. <i>It’s not the same at all.</i></p><p>It’s not fair of him. He knows this. If Mickey can answer, Ian can answer, too.</p><p>But Mickey apparently <i>can’t</i> answer.</p><p>Ian sits up and climbs off the bed.</p><p>“Forget it,” he says, affecting an air of nonchalance. </p><p>He goes into the bathroom and washes his hands, then his face. Takes his meds--those three fucking little pills that he hates so much--and zips his organizer back up in his toiletry pouch.</p><p>When he exits the bathroom, Mickey’s gone.</p><p>Ian pulls back on his T-shirt, boxers, and a pair of sweatpants. He spots his too-small gray T-shirt still in the chair, just lying there out in the open like Mickey’s forgotten about its existence--forgotten that Ian would recognize it, that he’d know Mickey’s been sleeping in his shirt.</p><p>Mickey’s been sleeping in his shirt.</p><p>Ian runs his hands over his face in frustration and heads downstairs.</p><p>There’s an opened box of strawberry PopTarts on the counter, and Ian grabs a package, tears it open, and leans back against the kitchen counter, eating them cold.</p><p>He spies Mickey out on the balcony, leaning against the guardrail and smoking.</p><p>He shouldn’t have said anything. What the hell was he thinking?</p><p>Ian takes a bite of PopTart, tilts his head back, closes his eyes, and sighs up at the ceiling as he chews. Why didn’t he keep his fucking mouth shut?</p><p>They were going to fuck without a condom. Ian was going to be inside Mickey raw. It makes his guts twist to think about it, makes him feel warm in his thighs and his belly. Makes him <i>want</i> him.</p><p>Why’d he have to be so stupidly curious? It’s the same as everything else with Mickey.</p><p>He’s opening up a little, but not all the way. He’s cool with Ian being in his house, knowing the barest details about his current daily life. He’s still not cool with Ian knowing anything past the fact that his dad’s a piece of shit and he was tested a year ago.</p><p>Tested a year ago. A year ago was March 2020. He and Ian didn’t hook up until July.</p><p>If Mickey’s so confident he’s still clean, does that mean Ian was Mickey’s first time since at least March?</p><p>It tracks. Mickey seemed a little rusty, a little eager but not a virgin. He’d pulled down his pants and bent at the waist, upper body to the bed, ass exposed. Maybe it wasn’t the most elegant move, but Ian thinks he would’ve acted a little less confident if it’d been his first time.</p><p>Plus, the fact that he’s been tested to begin with just about proves he’s fucked before, as why else would he have gotten tested?</p><p>Ian watches Mickey through the glass. Sees him make an attempt at blowing a smoke ring.</p><p>God, he’s fucking cute. He’s so fucking cute. He’s beautiful.</p><p>What’s he going to think when Ian inevitably has to tell him that he’s had sex with--<i>More than ten?</i>--guys?</p><p>More than ten. More than twenty. More than fifty.</p><p>Having a lot of sex is one thing. Ian doesn’t care about that. He doesn’t think he’d be even remotely ashamed if he’d just hooked up with a lot of guys for fun throughout his sexually active years.</p><p>What makes his stomach hurt is everything that came with it.</p><p>He’s not normal. He doesn’t have a normal sexual history. </p><p>He was a child when he had the brunt of it, his sex partners men in their forties, fifties, sixties a time or two. Thinking about sex with them gives him cottonmouth and a stomachache. </p><p>Ian hates himself sometimes, thinking about it. Wishing he could be normal in at least that way, just a regular sexually active gay kid who once banged a lot of guys his age in the back bedrooms of high school parties.</p><p>What will Mickey think of him?</p><p>On the porch, Mickey stubs out the remains of his cigarette in the ashtray and, after taking a moment to peer out at the neighborhood, comes back inside.</p><p>And Ian’s expecting him to make a cutting remark. To walk away. Go upstairs.</p><p>Instead, his eyes land on Ian with surprise, like he wasn’t expecting him to be in the kitchen, and then a strangely soft look passes over his face. He swallows visibly, Adam’s apple bobbing, and comes over. </p><p>He takes his own pack of PopTarts from the box, tears open the wrapper, and together, the two of them eat cold toaster pastries in silence.</p><p>Occasionally, there will be a puff of air from Mickey’s lips, an exhalation like he’s about to say something. Ian glances his way each time to find an oddly desperate look in his eyes, reminiscent of that night in the skyline loft.</p><p>Mickey never says anything.</p><p>Ian lets it go.</p><p>They make coffee.</p><p>Mickey hangs around him, almost clingy, <i>weirdly</i> clingy, watching him warily and eventually talking to him in an almost uncharacteristically friendly fashion.</p><p>“<i>Goof</i>,” he says, staring down at his phone.</p><p>Ian raises a brow at him. “What?”</p><p>Mickey holds out his phone, revealing he’s looking at Ian’s story post.</p><p>“Hey,” Ian says, setting down his FUCK U-UP merch mug. “Stop watching my story.”</p><p>“You watch all of mine.”</p><p>“So? Got a problem with that?”</p><p>Mickey stares at Ian, brows lowered but something complicated flashing across his features. He shrugs, and the look is gone.</p><p>Ian checks his watch. 11:04 Chicago. 9:04 LA.</p><p>“Hey.”</p><p>“Hey?”</p><p>Ian eyes him. “So, running. Is that like a thing people do here?”</p><p>“For exercise?”</p><p>“No, away from a bear. <i>Yes</i>, for exercise.”</p><p>Mickey’s face scrunches up in distaste. “Uhh, yeah, I guess. If that’s something you actually wanna do.”</p><p>“Cool.” Ian squints his eyes at Mickey. “So, I might do that?”</p><p>“Knock yourself out.”</p><p>---</p><p>He needs the exercise. </p><p>Ian’s always been a bit of a body-conscious guy--not always with food, maybe, though he used to go for high protein, high energy breakfasts when he was training during his JROTC days--but he’s always exercised. Running. Push-ups. Sit-ups. Installed a pull-up bar in the doorway.</p><p>A lot of his muscle mass was lost to illness, to mania, to drugs, to the twenty pounds he dropped because he felt like he couldn’t, shouldn’t stop moving enough to eat.</p><p>Over the past several months, he’s been slowly trying to build back up again. He’s been eating more. He’s gained a little weight--maybe five pounds, just enough that he’s able to loosen his belt a notch. He’s been running.</p><p>After changing into gym shorts and sneakers, Ian takes off down Mickey’s driveway to the street below his house, then turns right. He jogs along the edge of the road, as the streets are narrow and there aren’t many sidewalks, and takes a path down to where the road forks. He hangs a left, carrying himself further up the hill on which Mickey’s house sits.</p><p>When Ian thought about Los Angeles neighborhoods, he never pictured that they’d look mostly the same as any other neighborhood.</p><p>It’s not <i>Southside</i>, of course. There are no abandoned buildings filled with crackheads or dirty, bent needles to kick out of your walking path. But it’s really just a ton of old, funky-looking houses packed tightly together, separated only by weather-worn privacy fences.</p><p>After a few minutes of heavy exertion, Ian makes it to the top of the hill, then runs across until the street begins to slope downward again. He pauses there at the top, panting, and pulls out his phone. Snaps a picture of the neighborhood down the hill.</p><p>He texts it to Mandy along with a sweaty-faced selfie he takes, then begins to make his descent.</p><p>She texts him back before he’s halfway down the hill.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Mandy (9:42 AM):</b> heyyyyy mr. cali ☀️ </p><p><b>Mandy (9:42 AM):</b> how do u like it??</p><p><b>Mandy (9:42 AM):</b> and how annoying is my brother? 💁</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Ian pauses on the hill and, after lifting his shirt to wipe his face, decides to have a seat on the curb to rest.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (9:43 AM):</b> It’s great, haven’t seen much yet but hopefully later</p><p><b>Ian (9:43 AM):</b> Mickey’s Mickey, what can I say?</p><p><b>Mandy (9:44 AM):</b> running the risk of knowing wayyyy tmi about my brother… has my bed been used at all?</p><p><b>Ian (9:44 AM):</b> Nope</p><p><b>Mandy (9:45 AM):</b> figured 🙃</p><p><b>Mandy (9:45 AM):</b> well hope ur having a good time!</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Ian bites his lip. Considers.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (9:46 AM):</b> Hey</p><p><b>Ian (9:46 AM):</b> Can I ask you something? You have to tell the truth and you can’t tell your brother!</p><p><b>Mandy (9:46 AM):</b> sure?? pinkie swear</p><p><b>Ian (9:47 AM):</b> Back in Chicago, did Mickey ever date anybody? Or do you remember him ever hooking up with people?</p><p>------------------------</p><p>It takes forever for Mandy to respond--much longer than it should for just two little letters.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Mandy (9:49 AM):</b> no</p><p><b>Mandy (9:49 AM):</b> why?</p><p><b>Ian (9:50 AM):</b> Nothing, long story</p><p><b>Ian (9:50 AM):</b> Or actually not a long story, he’s just being weird about his sexual history.</p><p><b>Ian (9:51 AM):</b> Sorry, I know you’re not the person to ask about this, he’s your brother, it’s awkward.</p><p><b>Mandy (9:51 AM):</b> yeah</p><p><b>Mandy (9:51 AM):</b> sorry</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Ian stands from the curb and shakes out his legs. There’s a woman watering her flowers just over the security fence behind him, and she gives him a dirty look as he gets moving again.</p><p>And he’s just typing out <i>Ok cool, anyways, ttyl</i> when Mandy texts him.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Mandy (9:53 AM):</b> i kno mick’s my brother so i’m supposed to be a bitch to him and all but i just wanted to say</p><p><b>Mandy (9:53 AM):</b> be nice to him about that stuff i guess</p><p><b>Mandy (9:53 AM):</b> please 💛</p><p><b>Mandy (9:54 AM):</b> love u</p><p>------------------------</p><p>As Ian makes his way down the hill, then loops around to Mickey’s street and pounds pavement toward his house, one last push to the end, he can’t help but feel like all the people in Mickey’s life know something that Ian doesn’t.</p><p>---<br/>
---</p><p>Back at the house, Mickey’s editing again, the door to his gaming room wide open.</p><p>“Mandy says ‘hi,’” Ian greets, tapping his door as he passes by to go hit the shower.</p><p>He heads down the hall to Mickey’s bedroom and strips down, tossing his sweat-damp clothing into Mickey’s laundry basket, hoping he’ll be able to wash it before he leaves.</p><p>And he’s just making his way into the bathroom, sauntering in his boxers toward the shower, when he hears from the bedroom doorway, “Uh, why’d you talk to Mandy?”</p><p>Ian turns on the water, and Mickey’s voice rises so that it can be heard over the spray. “Did you like, call her, or…?”</p><p>“Uhh, just texted with her on my run.” Ian moves to the bathroom doorway. “Why?”</p><p>Mickey shrugs. Rubs back and forth across his lips with the side of his index finger. “Just wonderin’.”</p><p>“Is that <i>okay</i>?” Ian jokes--sort of, sort of not. </p><p>“Whatever.”</p><p>Mickey watches Ian for a moment, but when Ian makes a motion to take off his boxers, he turns around and saunters back down the hall.</p><p>---</p><p>There’s something to be said for nice showers, even weird ones with bathtubs inside them.</p><p>Mickey’s shampoo and bodywash are pretty standard $4.99 stuff from CVS, but his insane water pressure and rain shower head is enough to make getting clean a luxurious experience.</p><p>Ian takes his time, scrubbing his scalp with Pantene, lathering up with Irish Spring. He’s just rinsing his hair, eyes squeezed shut, when the shower door opens, a burst of cold air hitting him and making him yelp.</p><p>Quickly, he swipes his eyes clear of suds and opens them to find Mickey, naked, holding a blue towel.</p><p>“What?” Ian asks when Mickey just stands there, as Mo would say, <i>like a spare prick at a wedding.</i></p><p>“Uhh, was gonna shower, too, if that’s cool.”</p><p>Ian doesn’t mention the fact that there’s another shower in the guest bedroom or that he’s about three minutes from being done if Mickey just wants to wait. Instead, he nods, clears the water from his eyes again, and steps aside to let Mickey in.</p><p>He gives Mickey a moment to get his hair wet under the spray, then they switch places and Ian rinses off his body and the rest of his hair while Mickey lathers up.</p><p>And well, Ian’s technically done then, but he loiters, washing his feet like that’s something he actually does. Standing under the spray so the water can relax his shoulders.</p><p>He tilts his head from side to side, eyes closed, hand on the shower wall.</p><p>Suddenly, there’s the soft touch of hands against his sides--so gentle, so shy. </p><p>Ian spins in Mickey’s loose hold to find him staring at him, the most curious look on his face--the pre-belly-kiss look, brows knit together, eyes cautious, lips parted. </p><p>Faster than Ian can blink, Mickey squeezes him and leans in, pressing a kiss to the side of his neck.</p><p>He hovers there afterward, lips an inch away, before resting them once more against Ian’s wet skin.</p><p>Ian breathes out a sigh that’s loud even in the sound of the spray.</p><p><i>What are you doing?</i> he wants to ask. Mickey’s breath is hot against his skin, little puffs of air from between his lips, out his nose.</p><p>Ian touches his fingers lightly to Mickey’s hips, and as if using that as a cue, Mickey drops to his knees on the shower floor.</p><p>He takes Ian into his mouth, soft as he is, and Ian watches him, brows furrowed, as he gets his hand on him, looks up into his eyes, and starts to move, his tongue hot and searching.</p><p>Ian touches Mickey’s wet hair, shampoo suds still clinging to his temples. His mouth drops open as he slides his fingers against his scalp, then down to his neck, holding him in a gentle grip.</p><p>
  <i>What’s going on with you?</i>
</p><p>Mickey’s mouth is fast and sure. His teeth are there in accidental skims against the head of Ian’s cock, the back molars, and it’s from nerves, Ian knows. From whatever feeling’s coursing through Mickey’s body in that moment, whatever’s in that head of his.</p><p>“Hey, hey,” Ian whispers, pulling up on Mickey’s head. </p><p>Mickey goes in deeper, and Ian tugs again. “Mickey, stop.”</p><p>A pause. A sigh. </p><p>Mickey moves back, thumbs at his mouth, his eyes cast downward.</p><p>Ian doesn’t know what’s going on with him. The thing that morning, sure. But that was just a symptom, a moment of frustration born out of things that aren’t being said. The same with this.</p><p>Ian bends and moves his hands from Mickey’s head to his armpits, tugging until Mickey sighs and stands.</p><p>And well, Ian may not know what’s going on with him, but maybe he can make him feel better.</p><p>He drops to his knees this time. Takes Mickey in his mouth. He looks up as he does it, eyes searching, and finds Mickey staring down at him with his lips parted and that curious look on his face again. Ian wishes he knew what it meant.</p><p>He slides his hands around to Mickey’s ass as he blows him, tugs gently, spreading him apart. Squeezing. Mickey makes breathy sounds, moans that sound like puffs of air in the noise of the spray, which is hitting Ian’s back like so many needles.</p><p>Mickey’s legs part just slightly, and Ian uses it to his advantage, pulling away from his dick and working lower, kissing at his scrotum, getting a hand in to massage it, to move it up so he can get behind, mouth tasting at places it never has before, Mickey’s perineum, the innermost bit of his thigh.</p><p>Ian moves back and, with gentle pressure, turns Mickey around.</p><p>And he’s <i>never</i> done this. Not one single time in his entire life. But Ian, slow as anything, spreads Mickey apart and touches his mouth to him.</p><p>“Oh fuck,” Mickey groans, and Ian kisses at him, pulls back and smiles because he’s sweet, isn’t he, his surprised <i>oh fuck</i> like he didn’t know what Ian was going to do when he spun him around.</p><p>Ian works at him, sliding in his tongue, then moving his right hand around to take his dick in hand, stroking him carefully, in long, even jerks, drawing gasps out of Mickey, who leans his forehead against the shower wall.</p><p>It’s both their first time with this. Ian doesn’t know if he’s any good or not, but Mickey’s enjoying it, his thighs trembling. Ian slides his free hand down the side of his right one, feeling the strong muscle as it shakes, fingers digging in and dimpling his soft flesh.</p><p>“Yeah, fuck,” Mickey whispers suddenly, before making a series of high sounds, indicating he’s close. Ian works him with his tongue, with his hand, and before long, Mickey’s pulsing against him, from the front and back, coming in hot stripes against the shower wall.</p><p>When he’s done, Ian pulls back. Leans in once more to press a sweet kiss to Mickey’s fuzzy sacrum. Stands.</p><p>Mickey’s panting, blissed out, and Ian takes mercy on him and grasps him at the shoulders, helping walk him under the spray so he can clean off.</p><p>He scrubs at his hair, just a little, getting out some of the shampoo suds that have since turned to a thin foam.</p><p>
  <i>You okay?</i>
</p><p>Ian swallows and pulls his hands away. And well, maybe he should…</p><p>“Hey, you okay?”</p><p>Mickey turns to him, bemused expression on his face. “Why wouldn’t I be?”</p><p>Ian shrugs.</p><p>
  <i>Maybe because you’re acting weird?</i>
</p><p>Mickey, apparently set on ignoring him now, turns away again and finishes his rinse-off. Ian opens the shower door, steps out onto the plush mat, and grabs his towel.</p><p>---</p><p>They start recording at noon. <i>Dust to Dust</i> Chapter 3 centers around the story of a 1950s mother. The imagery is freaky, Marjorie, the central ghost, apparently having succumbed to madness before her inevitable demise, and experiencing her story is like finding your way through a funhouse or a psychedelic trip.</p><p>Marjorie manifests as a shapeshifter--a middle-aged housewife, a young boy, a seemingly drug-addled twenty-something, and an old man with black eyes. It’s meant to indicate a loss of identity through her mental illness, Mickey surmises, looking thoughtful.</p><p>“Neat idea, I guess.”</p><p>As soon as he transformed into MICK MILK, the awkwardness between the two of them disappeared. Now, it’s MICK MILK and Ian playing a horror game, MICK taking on the role of skeptic and Ian more open-minded and optimistic, making faces at MICK’s wry comments and getting obliterated by jump scares.</p><p>Chapter 3 has turned them up a notch. The apparition of a hanging body suddenly giving a jerk. Binaural audio used to create the effect of a little boy suddenly whispering “Hi” in the player’s left ear. The black-eyed old man spider-crawling across the ceiling.</p><p>“I see you, SneakAttack,” Mickey comments, no heat in his criticism. “Reusin’ that shit from Chapter 1.”</p><p>He turns to Ian. “That scare you <i>again</i>? It was literally fuckin’ recycled.”</p><p>“Fuck off.” Ian takes a drink of his Mango Loco Monster.</p><p>They pause the game after two hours to scarf down some fish tacos Mickey had delivered by Uber Eats, then push on to the end.</p><p>Turns out, Marjorie was killed in some sort of metaphorical group murder sequence, the player having to kill all her incarnations and then watch her commit suicide.</p><p>After the chapter is over, Mickey calls out SneakAttack once more but gives an overall positive review, stating it was <i>a whole fuckin’ lot better than whatever-the-fuck Chapter 2 was.</i></p><p>It’s just past five when they’re done. Ian heads out onto the downstairs balcony, smokes, and texts with his family while Mickey does whatever he does on the computer after recording.</p><p>Mickey has a livestream that evening at seven, so he’s antsy. Smokes like a chimney as he wanders around downstairs when he’s done with the Let’s Play recording. Ian watches him through the closed sliding glass door before going back to answering Liam’s questions about what it’s like to record with MICK MILK.</p><p>“Hey,” Mickey calls twenty minutes later, sliding open the door just enough to stick his head through. “Mo said she’ll take you to dinner if you’re down for it.” He shrugs, brows pulled together. “I gotta do my thing, so.”</p><p>“Uh, yeah. Sounds good.”</p><p>Mickey taps the outside of the house in an expression of <i>got it</i> and leaves to go set up for the livestream.</p><p>---</p><p>It’s the strangest thing, navigating Mickey. They were obviously annoyed with each other that morning, and then they were some semblance of overenthusiastically okay, then they were weird again after Ian’s run, then okay during the recording. Now they’re weird again, and Mickey’s cutting eyes at Ian, who’s changing into a hoodie while Mickey’s sitting on his bed with his laptop, smoking.</p><p>He’s gotten ash on the duvet--on Ian’s side, of course--and Ian makes a face at him and tells him to use the ashtray.</p><p>Mickey eyes Ian and reaches toward the nightstand, tapping off his cigarette dramatically. “Happy?”</p><p>“Very.”</p><p>Ian smiles at him, just because, and Mickey gets a weird look again before dropping his eyes to his laptop screen.</p><p>---</p><p>Mo arrives at the house at just after six in a gray, 2005 Volvo. She has on a multicolored striped T-shirt tucked into high-waisted jeans, and she’s spinning her keyring around her finger, jangling her keys in a way that makes Mickey complain at her.</p><p>“Alright, Mr. Grumpy,” she says, patting his shoulder. “Good luck with your stream. What are we playing tonight?”</p><p>Mickey, who’s leaning on the first floor stair railing, shrugs. “Some piece of shit FPS just released on Steam.”</p><p>“PC tonight?”</p><p>“Yeah. Tryin’ some more of it.”</p><p>Mo clearly knows and understands the lingo. She shakes her phone at him. “Maybe Ian and I will tune in from the restaurant.”</p><p>“Don’t. Game’s gonna be ass.”</p><p>Mickey eyes Ian, who’s standing by the front door, then looks away. Mo spins her keys at Mickey, they say their goodbyes, then leave.</p><p>The drive to the restaurant is short and uneventful. Ultimately, Los Feliz comes across to Ian as a town rather than an unfamiliar city, the vibes relatively chill. They creep down Hillhurst Ave., the street lined with small businesses, restaurants. A yoga studio. A salon advertising brazillian waxes. Along the sidewalks are evenly-spaced trees, both palm and something larger Ian can’t place.</p><p>The Italian restaurant Mo’s chosen is in a brick building on the corner. Mo skillfully parallel parks in front of a meter down the street, and she and Ian climb out of the car and head in.</p><p>It’s a relatively small establishment, table-filled, with exposed brick walls and mounted black-and-white framed photos.</p><p>Mo has reservations for 7:00, and she and Ian are able to snag a two-person table on the street.</p><p>They chat casually for a while, through drink orders and eventual food orders, Ian going with lasagna and Mo going with something complicated involving mussels and clams. They also order spaghetti and meatballs to be boxed up for Mickey.</p><p>Mo tells Ian about her family, how her mom is a sweet primary school teacher and dad is a verbally abusive drunk. As they munch from the basket of bread on the table, Ian tells her about his own family situation, empathizing with the dad part, and they toast their glasses of ice water in solidarity.</p><p>When the food comes, they dig in for a few quiet moments. The sun is completely down by this point and Mo shrugs into a light jacket--despite the fact that it’s March, the temperature still in the upper fifties. </p><p>“So, you seein’ anybody?” Ian asks through a mouthful of lasagna, only catching himself being impolite at the last moment and holding his fist to his lips as he chews.</p><p>“Still single.” Mo air-toasts her water glass. “You’d think that by being attracted to all genders, I’d have plenty of people to choose from. But alas, it’s only gave me more people to be bothered by.” She grins. “I hate everyone.”</p><p>Ian chuckles at her. Nods. “Yeeeah.”</p><p>Mo takes a bite of her pasta and chews with her napkin to her lips. “Sooo,” she drawls once she’s swallowed. “Tell me your situation?”</p><p>“Mmm.” Ian sucks his teeth. “No idea.” He feels his cheeks flame up, so he shovels in some lasagna in an effort to divert Mo’s attention. </p><p>She eyes him. “I’m certain your boyfriend would say otherwise.”</p><p>Ian makes a choking sound, a string of cheese falling into his throat involuntarily and causing him to have to cough it back into his mouth.</p><p>He chews. Swallows properly. “Uhh...”</p><p>Mo chuckles. “I’m only saying. I’m basically mum, here, with a teenage boy who won’t talk to me, but I’m not an idiot.”</p><p>“But we’re not, though. You know that, right?”</p><p>“Not what?”</p><p>Ian sighs. “I dunno. Not like, a <i>thing</i> or whatever.”</p><p>“Please.”</p><p>“Has he…<i>heavily implied</i> anything?”</p><p>Mo shrugs. “Mickey won’t chat about boys with me in any detail. I just know him.”</p><p>“What does that mean?”</p><p>“It’s like I told you weeks ago.” Mo idly drags her fork through her pasta. “Mickey’s inner circle is the size of a pinhead.” She picks up a mussel and works on scooping out the insides. “And suddenly, there’s a sweetheart of a boy in it, and--again, <i>not an idiot</i>--they’re sleeping together. That’s not nothing. For him, especially.”</p><p>Ian takes a long drink of his water and considers her words. <i>For him, especially.</i> It occurs to him now that maybe she’s the answer to all his questions.</p><p>“Does Mickey date? Like, at all?” Ian asks, picking up his fork and using it to scrape bolognese sauce off the surface of his lasagna. “Or, y’know, have casual sex or…” He feels stupid suddenly. Shuts up by filling his mouth with the meat sauce on his fork.</p><p>Mo gives him the same look she’d given him while they were having their coffee the day before--like she views him as a cute, innocent kid.</p><p>“That’s Mickey’s business,” she says, apologetic. “I mean, he’s a bit of a prick, but he’s my best friend.”</p><p>“Got it.”</p><p>“<i>But</i>.” Mo pauses, her eyes going soft and lips upturning in sympathy. She reaches out a hand and touches Ian’s wrist. “I think you should talk to him.”</p><p>“He’s just…” Ian blows out a breath. Doesn’t know how to say it. Doesn’t know if it’s TMI or like, <i>weird</i> or whatever to talk to a girl about gay sex. </p><p>“We um. We were like, <i>about to start</i> this morning, and I asked him, y’know. How many guys he’s been with.”</p><p>Mo raises an eyebrow but doesn’t seem appalled. It gives Ian confidence.</p><p>“We’ve never really talked about his, uh, <i>our</i> sexual history at all. I don’t know shit about his dating life. Like, he could be fucking half of Los Angeles for all I know. And, uh, this morning, he kinda clammed up. Wouldn’t tell me anything. He’s been weird about it all day.”</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“I see.” Mo takes a sip of her water, sets down her glass, and then leans her elbow on the table. She takes a deep breath, like she’s readying herself to share something she’s not sure she should.</p><p>“I’ve known Mickey since 2018. Back then, he was this odd, grumpy little arshole with a massive chip on his shoulder.”</p><p>“<i>Back then</i>?”</p><p>Mo smiles. Waves her hand. Touché. </p><p>“We became fast friends. He didn’t know anyone out here, and I’ve always been solitary but sort of looking. I dunno. He was my client, but we just clicked. Instantly. I was living in my Glendale flatshare, and my flatmate went out of country for several months. Mickey needed a place to live, as he was staying in a shit rental in an awful neighborhood.” She tips her head, remembering. “He moved in.”</p><p>“You lived with him?”</p><p>“‘course, yeah. ‘round seven months. Then we both got our own flats in the complex where I live now before he purchased his home last year.”</p><p>Ian nods. Eats his lasagna.</p><p>“What I’m getting at here is that we’re close.” She taps her finger against the table for emphasis. “But he didn’t share with me some significant things about his life until around a year ago. He’s private. Keeps things to himself, mostly.”</p><p>Mo takes a sip of her water and then rocks in her seat as if to say, <i>I’m getting to my point.</i></p><p>“But <i>anyway</i>, what I wanted to share is that he has gone through a <i>hell</i> of a lot. When I first met him, he was struggling with some issues with like, ehm, perceived masculinity. Sexuality stuff. In retrospect, that’s perhaps why we connected.” She waves a hand at herself. “So. Be patient with him. Please.”</p><p>Ian’s reminded of Mandy’s text.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Mandy (9:53 AM):</b> be nice to him about that stuff i guess</p><p><b>Mandy (9:53 AM):</b> please 💛</p><p>------------------------</p><p>He nods, suddenly feeling sheepish. </p><p>“I can tell you care about him,” Mo adds, a smile working its way onto her face. “He’s frustrating. I get it. But I would fight to the death for him. He’s a lovely human, our Mick.”</p><p>Ian smiles back. Wants to tell her something suddenly, his heart warm.</p><p>“I like him,” he says, voice a whisper.</p><p>Mo snorts and relaxes back into her seat, bringing her water glass with her as if to suddenly settle in to talk shit. “Is this meant to be new information?”</p><p>“Shut up.”</p><p>“Aww.”</p><p>Ian rolls his eyes, embarrassed but happy. He starts working at his food again. “Can I tell you something?”</p><p>“Shoot.”</p><p>“Me and Mickey, y’know. Um. We’ve never kissed.”</p><p>Oddly, Mo doesn’t look surprised. She takes a drink of her water, capturing an ice cube in her teeth and sucking on it. “Do me a favor?” she asks.</p><p>Ian raises an eyebrow. “Uhh, sure.”</p><p>“Let him do it first.”</p><p>---</p><p>They finish up their food, Ian pays for his own meal because he so desperately wants to do what he can, they collect Mickey’s take-out, and then the two of them climb in Mo’s car and head back to Mickey’s place.</p><p>Mo doesn’t get out of the car, instead idling on the street in front of the house. “Talk to him,” she says, giving Ian’s shoulder a squeeze. “He needs to feel absolute trust before he opens up.”</p><p>“Got it. Thanks, Mo.”</p><p>“Bye, Ian.”</p><p>Ian heads into the house, the front door unlocked because Mickey’s apparently a fucking idiot living in a goddamned murder house neighborhood and simply asking to be ritualistically killed.</p><p>Ian checks his watch. 11:34 Chicago time. 9:34 LA time. Mickey’s still got another hour and a half left in his livestream, probably. Ian locks the door behind him, climbs the stairs to the second floor, and then crosses to the kitchen.</p><p>He opens the fridge, puts in Mickey’s styrofoam take-out box, pulls out a can of Dr. Pepper Cherry, and sneaks upstairs to take his meds.</p><p>When he’s done, he moves out to the bedroom balcony, sits in one of the chairs, and smokes. It’s a nice night. He can’t actually see the stars due to light pollution, but that fact actually makes him feel good. It makes him feel like the LA night sky and the Chicago night sky are one and the same, the cities thousands of miles apart but still knit together in the universe, his and Mickey’s skies.</p><p>He huffs a laugh at that. Stupid. Finishes up his cigarette and crushes it out in a yellow plastic ashtray perched on a little card table.</p><p>He takes out his phone.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (9:57 PM):</b> I’m back btw</p><p><b>Ian (9:57 PM):</b> Got you spaghetti 🍝🍝</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Ian pulls up Mickey’s livestream. He’s actively engrossed in blasting the shit out of some sort of monster using a submachine gun. Ian smiles, watching him call the slaughtered creature “little fuckin’ bitch” and then take a sip off a merch mug, likely filled with coffee.</p><p>He pauses the game briefly and squints at the chat. </p><p>“<i>Jesus Christ</i>,” he complains, “you all are fuckin’ annoying as shit tonight. It’s literally impossible for me to give less of a fuck about the weak-ass flamethrower. The weapons in this game suck.”</p><p>Mickey leans in closer to his chat monitor. Reads. “Well <i>yeah</i>, I’d like to melt his fuckin’ face off, too, but I can’t do that with this piece of shit. It does like zero damage.”</p><p>A beat.</p><p>“You think it’s a bug, Jimothy? Like, a game bug or it’s bugged out for me, specifically? Should I reload or what?”</p><p>Funnily enough, Ian hears Mickey’s phone chime with a text reminder in the midst of a pause in speech.</p><p>Mickey looks down, and Ian’s heart beats wildly when he spies a gentle upturn of his lips, followed by Mickey picking up his phone and, without shame, texting him back, live on camera.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Mickey (9:59 PM):</b> cool, thanks</p><p><b>Mickey (10:00 PM):</b> be done in like an hour, you can come in if you want</p><p><b>Mickey (10:00 PM):</b> don’t have to be on cam</p><p>------------------------</p><p>With a smile, Ian stands from the chair, pockets his phone, and leaves the balcony.</p><p>---</p><p>He’s quiet when he enters Mickey’s gaming room, not wanting to alert the viewers of his presence. Mickey only glances up at him briefly, poker-faced, and then goes immediately back to his game while Ian heads over to the corner of the room near the desk but out of range of the camera. He plops down in a bucket chair--a twin to the one in Mickey’s bedroom--and catches the pair of headphones covertly tossed his way.</p><p>He watches the remainder of the stream like that, eyes cutting back and forth from Mickey’s monitor to his face, heart in his throat.</p><p>When it’s over, the two of them head down to the kitchen and sit together at the island while Mickey eats reheated take-out spaghetti and meatballs and Ian drinks another Dr. Pepper.</p><p>“So you and Mo,” Mickey says, cutting into a meatball with the side of his fork.</p><p>Ian shrugs. “Yeah, she’s kinda great. I get why you like her. It was fun.”</p><p>“Did you like... I dunno. What’d you do or whatever?”</p><p>“Ate. Talked.”</p><p>Mickey’s mouth moves like he wants to say something. Instead, he shovels in half a meatball, which bulges his cheeks while he chews. </p><p>Finally, after he swallows, he takes a heavy swig off his beer and asks, “What kinda shit did you talk about?”</p><p>Mickey’s absolutely the most transparent human being alive when it comes to this. Ian smiles.</p><p>“You, mostly.”</p><p>“Uhhh…”</p><p>“Embarrassing shit you’ve done.”</p><p>“<i>What</i>?”</p><p>“Yeah. I mean, it kinda felt like, ‘maybe I shouldn’t know this information’ ‘cause it sorta fucked with the way I look at you, but Mo was <i>so</i> intent on sharing…”</p><p>“The fuck?”</p><p>Ian elbows him, and Mickey, finally catching on, flips him off and turns away to chug down more of his beer.</p><p>“Nah,” Ian says with a shrug. “We just talked about stuff. No embarrassing information shared.”</p><p>“But you did talk about me.” Mickey takes a bite of some twirled spaghetti on his fork, eyes focused on his food.</p><p>Ian considers. He presses his lips together. Glances at the side of Mickey’s head. The buzzed bits of his hair. The sweet curve of his ear. The small, pink pimple on his cheek.</p><p>“Yeah,” he says and takes a sip of his pop.</p><p>They sit in silence for the longest time, Mickey eating his dinner and Ian finishing his Dr. Pepper. He checks his watch. 1:32 Chicago time. 11:32 LA time.</p><p>Theoretically, he should be tired, 1:30 AM usually being about the time he hits the sack. He isn’t, though, energy simmering just under the surface of his skin.</p><p>He looks at Mickey, who’s just finishing up his food, the frequency of his bites lessening and his attention focusing more on his beer.</p><p>Ian watches him swallow a heavy drink. Mickey sets down his beer and turns his head to watch Ian right back.</p><p>“Did she like, tell you shit?” Mickey asks, voice soft. Unsure. His eyes tip to Ian’s chin and then back up again.</p><p>“No. <i>No</i>.”</p><p>It’s imperative that Mickey knows that--that his best friend didn’t tell his secrets.</p><p>“She just said that we probably need to talk.”</p><p>Mickey scoffs and rolls his eyes. He takes one last gulp from his beer and climbs off the barstool. </p><p>“Bitch,” he says, referring to Mo. There’s not a lot of heat in it, though--an expression of frustration more than anything.</p><p>Mickey dumps his trash and then heads over to the light panel on the wall by the staircase, flipping off the lights, one by one, leaving the second floor illuminated only by the glow of the security lights outside and what emanates from upstairs.</p><p>“I’m going to bed,” he says, scratching the back of his neck and placing his bare foot on the bottom step. </p><p>He hesitates, head lowered, before finally making his way up the stairs.</p><p>When he’s halfway up, he pauses again. Turns.</p><p>“You can come or whatever. If you want.” His voice is soft like cotton. Nervous.</p><p>Ian nods at him in the darkness and climbs off the barstool.</p><p>---</p><p>After they’ve readied themselves for bed, they climb in. Ian turns to Mickey, propping his head up on his hand, elbow to the mattress.</p><p>Mickey stares at the ceiling. Sighs heavily, the airy noise loud in the silence.</p><p>“Talk about what?” he asks, and Ian can just make out in the light from the glass door Mickey sucking on his bottom lip.</p><p>Ian blinks. Sniffs. “I asked her. Y’know. Why you didn’t want to talk about your history.”</p><p>“Fuck you. That’s none of your fuckin’ business.”</p><p>“She didn’t tell me.”</p><p>“You shouldn’t have fuckin’ asked. Why do you care about my <i>sexual history</i>?”</p><p>Ian swallows. “I mean.” His heart creeps into his throat, continuing to beat away. “I don’t. Not <i>like that</i>. I just…”</p><p>He drops his elbow and twists onto his back so that now, both he and Mickey are watching the golden lines from the security lights outside play across the ceiling.</p><p>“You’re just nosy as shit.”</p><p>“I just care about you.”</p><p>There’s a soft breath sound--stuttery, fluttery like butterfly wings.</p><p>“You’re my friend,” Ian adds. He turns his head, watching Mickey, who makes a weird huffy sound and swipes a hand over his face. “I just wanted to know you better. It’s not about like, how many guys you’ve banged, y’know. I don’t care about that.”</p><p>“It’s not important.”</p><p>“I know. You can trust me is all. That’s all I’m saying. Same with like, the stupid Carly Rae Jepsen shit.”</p><p>Mickey scoffs. <i>Chh</i>s in a way that makes Ian’s belly warm with happiness.</p><p>“Whatever.”</p><p>Ian turns back to the ceiling. Purses his lips. “When I went to the clinic to get tested, they asked me about my sexual history.”</p><p>Mickey doesn’t respond, so Ian continues.</p><p>“When they asked me how many sexual partners I’ve had, I said I didn’t know.”</p><p>He feels Mickey turn to him.</p><p>“It’s kinda why I was strict about the condom thing. Didn’t know if I, I dunno, had something or whatever.”</p><p>“Got it.”</p><p>There’s tension now. Ian feels Mickey’s body shrink inwards, shrink away like he’s trying to get closer to the edge of the bed, away from Ian.</p><p>“Thought you weren’t gettin’ much action,” Mickey states with forced nonchalance.</p><p>He’s referring to when they fucked in January, Ian’s comment about not having sex since that last time he’d seen Mickey in December.</p><p>“I wasn’t,” Ian says. “I’m not. Just you since, y’know, July.”</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>Mickey swallows. Relaxes. “Me too,” he murmurs. “Since July, or.” Shifts. “Earlier.”</p><p>Ian moves back onto his side and shuffles closer, enough that he can feel the warmth of Mickey’s body along his front.</p><p>They’re quiet. In his peripheral vision, Ian sees the digital clock on Mickey’s nightstand change from 11:56 to 11:57 to 11:58. They breathe together.</p><p>“Hey,” Ian whispers.</p><p>“<i>Chhh</i>. Will you stop with the fuckin’ <i>hey</i>s already?”</p><p>Ian ignores him. Forges on. “Have you ever had sex without a condom?”</p><p>There’s a huff of breath. A long pause. </p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Cool.”</p><p>To Ian’s surprise, Mickey cracks up at that. Pretty soon, they’re laughing like a pair of dumb kids.</p><p>“<i>Cool</i>,” Mickey mocks, and Ian kicks him. </p><p>Wants desperately to kiss him.</p><p>Mickey pokes his shoulder, then his belly. Ian pokes him back.</p><p>They settle.</p><p>The moment feels charged, filled with something close to hope, and Ian wants to bathe in it, drown in it. He thinks about <i>be patient with him</i>, <i>be nice to him</i>.</p><p>Carefully, as if afraid of waking a sleeping bear, Ian scoots close enough to toss an arm over Mickey’s stomach. He feels the stutter-shake of Mickey’s breaths, the stilted little rise and fall under his forearm.</p><p>He leans in, and Mickey twists to face him. Ian can smell him--like clean skin, remainders of shampoo, Aqua Reef deodorant and just a hint of spaghetti clinging to the mintiness of his breath.</p><p>Mickey makes a nervous noise in his throat, and Ian leans in and pecks his neck. Pulls back. Rests his mouth there again and sucks lightly.</p><p>It’s not to start anything, really. Just to be close. Closer. He wants to taste him, wants to feel him against his body.</p><p>Mickey’s arm hooks around Ian’s waist, and his hand finds the back of his T-shirt, sliding under and up along his spine. He pulls his head back, dislodging Ian’s mouth, and dips to touch his own lips to the side of Ian’s neck.</p><p>Ian closes his eyes, feels Mickey squeeze at him, feels the gentle suction to his skin of a hot, wet mouth. He tilts, tips his weight, getting Mickey on his back again and Ian between his legs.</p><p>He moves down, Mickey’s mouth falling away, and pushes up his T-shirt. And Ian can’t see them in the shadowed darkness, but he knows they’re there--the three yellowish hickies he’d left behind on Valentine’s Day. He dips his head and presses his mouth in the general vicinity of them, sucking hard, hard, then soothing with his tongue, wanting to darken them again, give Mickey something to remember him by in the coming days, weeks, when Ian’s in freezing Chicago and Mickey’s still here amongst the sun and stars.</p><p>Mickey’s hands go to the neck of his shirt and pull up. Ian does what he can to his stomach and then relents, lifting his head and allowing Mickey to start pulling his shirt off.</p><p>They undress quickly, shirts to the floor, pants and underwear half-on, half-off the bed.</p><p>“Just to clarify,” Ian says when they’re back in position, all their warm, fuzzy bits pressing together, Mickey’s legs spread and Ian stretched out in-between. </p><p>“What <i>now</i>?”</p><p>“We’re both like, not fucking other people.”</p><p>“Jesus Christ.”</p><p>Ian chuckles, and Mickey softens his words with arms around Ian’s back, fingers stroking gently at his skin.</p><p>“Whatever,” he says, a grumble, and Ian sees the flash of his eyes as he rolls them in the dark. “I’m not your <i>girl</i>friend. We ain’t gonna go to prom.”</p><p>“Didn’t say you were.”</p><p>It doesn’t bother Ian, Mickey’s words just words with nothing behind him, the slide of his fingers against his spine what Ian chooses in that moment to read.</p><p>“We’re not together.”</p><p>“I know.”</p><p>Ian reaches across for the lube on the nightstand and then buries his mouth in the neck of that sweet, annoying motherfucker who does nothing but get a hand up to stroke gently at his hair.</p><p>---</p><p>They touch for a while. Ian sucks Mickey’s dick for three minutes and then when Mickey tries return the favor, he stops him with a hand on his chest.</p><p>“Don’t need any help gettin’ hard right now, thanks.”</p><p>And well, he absolutely doesn’t. </p><p>Ian’s fucked guys without condoms before. It’s not a big deal usually, just a way to have sex. Feels better. It’s kinda hot feeling the textures undulled by even thin latex.</p><p>But after getting Mickey ready, when Ian’s lubing himself up and touching the head of his dick to Mickey’s entrance, he suddenly realizes just how <i>insane</i> this is, that he’s about to slide bare into Mickey Milkovich for longer than a twelve-second mistake when he wasn’t thinking.</p><p>He closes his eyes. Blows out a breath.</p><p>And it’s made even better by the fact that it’s Mickey’s first time.</p><p>Ian doesn’t have a kink for it or anything--at least he doesn’t think--nothing about being a person’s first time getting him going on principle. But it’s <i>Mickey</i>, and Mickey’s never had anybody to fuck him raw, and that Ian gets to share this with him, gets to be the only person in the entire world to see him like this, so vulnerable, gets to be the only person to come inside him, maybe, if he’ll let him, is just about the hottest thing Ian can imagine.</p><p>He’s a little wet at the tip already when he starts to work himself in. Mickey makes a soft noise at the sensation, and Ian almost suggests switching positions because he’s not sure he can look at him and last longer than a virgin. Or longer than their first time together. Jesus Christ. Ian cringes at the memory, using the embarrassment to keep him away from the edge as he slides in, in, in, and fully seats himself in Mickey’s body.</p><p>It’s incredible. <i>Any</i> sex with Mickey is incredible, but this is like taking off a glove to stroke your lover’s cheek, the sensations much clearer, cleaner. Ian feels the texture of Mickey inside, the heat and the folds and the smoothness. </p><p>He fucks into him, breathing hard, supporting his upper body on his outstretched arms and then, at Mickey’s coaxing--arms going around his upper back and tugging downward--allows himself to collapse until they’re closer together, bellies touching and rubbing with each movement.</p><p><i>God</i>, it’s so good. Mickey pants and keens with it. Ian gets a hand on his thigh and hitches it up higher, getting at him with a better angle, and soon enough, the bed is squeaking.</p><p>It’s quiet, the mattress more high-quality than one they’ve ever fucked on thus far, but it’s still there, this gentle, rhythmic <i>eek-eek-eek</i> that makes Ian drop his face to Mickey’s neck and grin, flat of his teeth pressing against his skin.</p><p>“<i>Shit</i>, Mickey,” he groans, working him as well as he can, shifting onto one elbow so he can get his hand involved, jerking Mickey’s cock in time with his thrusts.</p><p>He’s beautiful. He’s so, so beautiful. Mickey presses his head back into the pillows and squeezes his eyes shut, taking it, taking it. His mouth drops open, and he grimaces, makes a high noise.</p><p>Ian pauses for a moment and shifts around, taking Mickey by the backs of both thighs and pushing on them until he can get deeper.</p><p>Mickey moans loudly, and Ian moves into him over and over and over, wanting him to feel it, every inch, every bit.</p><p>“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Mickey begins to chant, puffs of air forced through teeth, and Ian dips his head to bite at his shoulder, smooth over it with a kiss, then another kiss to his jaw, then right up beside his ear near his cheek, mouth hot and skin sweaty.</p><p>“I’m, I’m,” Mickey whispers, a warning. Ian gets his hand back on his dick and strokes at him, moving his hips against him as much as he can, wanting to make him feel so, so good, wanting to make him feel everything. Kindness. Care. Affection. He presses their foreheads together, feels Mickey starting to tighten around him.</p><p>“Oh, fuck,” Ian moans, the slickness in his hand growing as Mickey nears orgasm. “Come on, come on.”</p><p>And Mickey does. He makes a broken sound, nails digging into Ian’s back and knees squeezing around his hips, and okay, yeah, there it is, Mickey squeezing around Ian’s dick inside like a vice, then releasing, then squeezing again in rhythmic contractions as he comes.</p><p>It takes everything in Ian’s power to keep from blowing his load then and there, his heart beating to the point that he thinks it might just burst from his chest.</p><p>Holy shit. <i>Holy shit</i>.</p><p>Mickey’s face is so beautiful in pleasure. Ian drinks it in, panting, stilling his hips and waiting as the flutterings around his cock subside, as Mickey goes from tensed, his nose and eyes scrunched, to relaxed, smooth.</p><p>They lie there for a second, Mickey coming down, before Ian leans more heavily on him, getting a hand in his hair because he wants to, needs to, and starts to thrust again.</p><p>He’s just at the edge. Won’t last much longer.</p><p>“Can I come in you?” Ian asks, squeezing at Mickey’s hair and kissing into the hot, sweaty place on his neck.</p><p>Mickey makes a pleasured noise and gets his hands on Ian’s ass, holding him in. “Fuck yeah, man.”</p><p>God. Ian closes his eyes and thrusts and thrusts, and after ten, twenty seconds, he comes, body bowstring taught, tight, the most intense pleasure thrumming through him, then loose as he comes, looser, the sound of his thrusts going from a faint slapping to something wetter, slicker as he works himself deep inside Mickey.</p><p>He collapses afterward, not bothering to pull out. Not having to. Mickey gets his arms around him, and for several minutes, the two of them lie there in silence, nothing but the sounds of their breaths filling the quiet of the room.</p><p>---</p><p>“Alright, Turkey Baster,” Mickey murmurs after a while. Ian tilts his head and checks the clock. 12:35. Minus resting and prep, about 20 minutes from start to finish. A decent first run.</p><p>He hums in response to Mickey’s statement, reaching up to smooth back his hair, over and over. He knows Mickey wants him off, but he allows himself to indulge for a minute before finally reaching down and pulling out.</p><p>The cleanup is awkward, and Mickey’s visibly embarrassed about it in the sort of way that gives Ian butterflies.</p><p>Ian tries to help as much as he can as, after all, it’s kinda his fault. He reaches for a handful of Kleenex and hands them to Mickey before grabbing another for himself.</p><p>Moving away and turning toward the sliding glass door to give Mickey a little privacy, Ian cleans himself up. He hears Mickey grabbing more Kleenexes, and the tips of Ian’s ears go red at the implication.</p><p>When they’re done cleaning up, they toss their copious Kleenexes somewhere in the vicinity of the wire wastebasket Mickey has beside his dresser, then collapse together, side-by-side, naked and uncovered by the duvet.</p><p>Ian feels Mickey’s gaze on him, so he turns his head. Catches his eye. Likes him so much he feels his insides light up with it.</p><p>They stare at each other for the longest time and, well, maybe it’s weird. Is it weird? But Ian turns on his side and drapes an arm around Mickey’s middle. Not a precursor to anything. Nothing sexual. Just to hold him a little after they’ve just shared an intimate experience.</p><p>He’s half-expecting Mickey to throw his arm off, and he doesn’t know why. He’s not sure he <i>truly</i> sees Mickey doing that anymore, and his belly twists at the thought that Mickey relaxing into comfort could become a thing. Might <i>be</i> a thing.</p><p>Mickey doesn’t throw his arm away. Instead, he reaches for a cigarette on the nightstand, lights up, and smokes while Ian holds him.</p><p>“I haven’t…” he starts after several minutes, pausing to work his mouth as if unsure how to get the words out.</p><p>Ian squeezes him.</p><p>“I haven’t had like, a lot of sex or whatever.” It’s the softest thing.</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>“Yeah, like.” Mickey blows out a breath. “Five times total before…”</p><p>Before Ian.</p><p>He never finishes his sentence. Ian doesn’t say anything, letting the confession hang in the air, accepted without comment.</p><p>After a minute, as if in reward for Ian’s silence, Mickey adds, “Couldn’t really fuck guys or anything until I came here, so.”</p><p>Ian remembers Mo’s words.</p><p>
  <i>When I first met him, he was struggling with some issues with like, ehm, perceived masculinity. Sexuality stuff.</i>
</p><p>He also ponders the word <i>couldn’t</i>. Mickey <i>couldn’t</i>. Ian wonders about his life before LA.</p><p>They lie in silence as Mickey finishes his cigarette, holding it out and allowing Ian the last puff before crushing it in the ashtray.</p><p>---</p><p>They have sex again that night, several hours later. Ian gets up to go to the bathroom and then returns to find Mickey awake.</p><p>When he climbs back under the covers with a soft noise of recognition, Mickey gently inches toward him and then on top of him, and before long, they’re going at it, Mickey riding Ian as best he can at 4:30 in the morning, the two of them bleary-eyed and half-asleep.</p><p>Ian tries to pull out near the end, when he’s about to come before Mickey, thinking he’d maybe spare some of the more awkward cleanup in favor of just coming on Mickey’s stomach. </p><p>But when he grasps himself and goes to pull out, Mickey whispers, “No, no, I want your come in me,” and at that point, Ian’s brain goes offline, the image of Mickey Milkovich slowly working himself on his cock, wanting Ian to come inside him, hurtling him over the cliff with an alarming intensity.</p><p>Afterward, they just pass out together, not even bothering to clean up.</p><p>---</p><p>They’re disgusting the next morning. Ian allows Mickey the first shower since it involves a much more intense cleanup operation, and while he waits, he pulls on boxers and a T-shirt and wanders out onto the balcony to smoke and check social media.</p><p>He does his semi-frequent name search on Twitter and doesn’t find anything, but when he taps over to the account of a well-known speculator, he finds some discussion of Mickey’s actions during his livestream the night before.</p><p>
  <span class="font-small"><b>👾 madz 👾:</b> so are we gonna talk about the fact that someone was with mickey during his stream or nah</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small"><b>nightmare babie:</b> wdym</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small"><b>👾 madz 👾:</b> more proof he has a bf, if you rewatch the vod @ 3:08:15 you can see him look up at someone walking past</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small"><b>👾 madz 👾:</b> then there’s the txting thing @ 3:04:12, i think he txts somebody in his house to call them over and they come in @ 3:08</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small"><b>nightmare babie:</b> but why a bf tho? it could be anyone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small"><b>👾 madz 👾:</b> who else is gonna be in his house at that time of night</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small"><b>nightmare babie:</b> 🤷</span>
</p><p>Jesus Christ. He idly scrolls his timeline, doesn’t see anything else of note, and closes out of the app.</p><p>---</p><p>Mickey steps out onto the porch fifteen minutes later to let Ian know he’s done. He’s already got on <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/6d1047235b750147f73ce7c62a6df07b/5432ba174953d00b-a9/s500x750/5eb090fd01c0d158bf31f348e834221f60d37b54.jpg">his button-down</a>--a blue <i>plaid</i> one this time, which is different and sexy as hell--and it’s unbuttoned over a white tanktop. </p><p>“Hey,” he says, sliding open the door just enough to slip through. He holds out his hand for Ian’s pack of cigarettes, and Ian hands it over along with a lighter. </p><p>Mickey taps out a cigarette and presses it between his lips, then lights up and takes a puff before continuing with, “Got some breakfast sandwiches coming. Figured we could eat and then get the recording shit out of the way early.”</p><p>Ian checks his watch. 10:59 Chicago time. 8:59 LA time.</p><p>“Uh, yeah, sounds good.” He stands. Stretches. “Got something goin’ on this afternoon?”</p><p>Mickey takes a prolonged drag off his cigarette, exhaling the smoke in a long stream out his nose. “Sorta. Figured since it’s your last day, we’d go like, see some shit or whatever. Get outta this fuckin’ neighborhood.”</p><p>Ian can’t control the smile that immediately breaks out across his face. He knows he looks stupid with it probably, knows his cheeks are flushing warm.</p><p>Mickey eyes him for a second and then looks away, nonchalant as if he hadn’t just suggested something incredibly sweet.</p><p>“Cool,” Ian says. Bites back a smile, thinking of the night before. “Lemme just hit the shower.”</p><p>---</p><p>After Ian’s showered and dressed, they have breakfast, Mickey having collected the bacon, egg, and cheese sandwiches from the Uber Eats driver, and head back up to the gaming room.</p><p>It’s the last chapter of <i>Dust to Dust</i>. Mickey will begin posting the Let’s Plays in one-hour segments beginning the following Tuesday, so the two of them will be gracing viewers’ YouTube subscriptions pages each day for about two weeks.</p><p>Since none of the <i>Nightmare Hour</i> episodes have been posted yet, Mickey doesn’t know how Ian will be received, so he makes his final session introduction fairly general, thanking viewers for sticking around so far, saying casually that he hopes they’ve been enjoying the <i>ginger asshole.</i></p><p>“Got any final words before we start?” Mickey asks, tilting his head toward Ian, who lowers his eyebrows.</p><p>“Uhh, no?” Ian says, and Mickey chuckles and starts the game.</p><p>Whereas the other chapters of the game captured the stories of spirits from different time periods, the protagonist having been somehow transported into earlier versions of his home, the final chapter takes place in the present. In it, the protagonist must battle his own demons and live out either his life or his death, depending on whether the player is successful.</p><p>It’s fairly obvious by now--at least to Mickey, Ian having a bit of a mind-blown moment--that all the spirits in the home, from the little girl to the lecherous man to the mentally ill woman, are manifestations of the protagonist’s psyche. Betrayal. Lust. Illness.</p><p>Chapter 4’s ghost is the protagonist, himself. Self-sabotage. </p><p>There actually aren’t any jump scares to deal with, the plot suddenly taking a 180-degree turn in the final act to become an emotional drama. The spirits are there, and they’re grotesque and horrifying, but they don’t jump out at anyone. Instead, they lurk in the background to be ignored or dealt with while the protagonist goes about his daily life.</p><p>Does he confront them? Does he succumb to them? Mickey plays the entirety of the only two-hour chapter, Ian just there to talk to.</p><p>At the end, the protagonist is standing in the middle of the bottom floor of the home, the spirits surrounding him, beckoning him to join them.</p><p>He has a choice: metaphorically commit suicide to end the pain and join as a happy family with his demons or walk out the door.</p><p>“What we doin’?” Mickey asks, turning to Ian, who runs his thumb back and forth across his eyebrow, thinking.</p><p>He points toward the door. “I think we’re gonna live, Mick.”</p><p>“Might be cool to be a ghost, y’know.”</p><p>Ian shrugs. “Sure, but there’s better stuff out there. Might suck for a while, but he’ll make it.”</p><p>“Pussy,” Mickey says but selects the door, and Ian knows he isn’t seeing things when he spots a soft smile on Mickey’s lips.</p><p>---</p><p>At the end of the recording, after the game’s over and they’ve gotten the <i>hopeful</i> ending, Mickey thanks his viewers for watching. And in a voice that lets Ian know from the get-go that it’s not going to make it in the actual episode, says surprisingly sillily, “So Ian, you got anything to plug?”</p><p>He makes a gagging sound afterward, and Ian grins at him. Flips him off. </p><p>“Okay, but in the actual video, are you gonna give out my social media shit?”</p><p>“Yup.”</p><p>“Fine.”</p><p>“Get ready to get popular, A-list. You ready?”</p><p>Ian smirks. “I’m already popular.”</p><p>“Uh huh.”</p><p>The way Mickey looks at him then… Ian’s never wanted to kiss him so badly.</p><p>---</p><p>When they’re done and Ian’s managed some semblance of an awkward thank you and farewell, Mickey tells Ian to go dress in something that makes him look less like a <i>cool evangelical</i> and then sets in to save and shut down his shit.</p><p>Ian flicks his ear obnoxiously on his way past and grins at the hard smack Mickey lands on his arm.</p><p>---<br/>
---</p><p>“So where we headed?” Ian asks once he and Mickey are in the Camaro. </p><p>Mickey reaches for the pair of tortoise-shell Clubmasters clipped to the sun-visor and slides them on. “Mmm, thought we’d just drive. See where we end up.”</p><p>There’s something stupidly romantic about that. Ian nods and buckles in.</p><p>---</p><p>They start off checking out the Hollywood Walk of Fame, which is only about five miles from Mickey’s house but takes almost twenty minutes to arrive at with traffic.</p><p>Mickey finds parking in Hollywood &amp; Highland, and the two of them climb out of the vehicle and make the short walk down N. Orange Dr. to connect with Hollywood Blvd right at Madame Tussauds. </p><p>Ian genuinely didn’t know what the Walk of Fame was going to be like. He’d seen that shit on TV, of course, celebrities getting their stars. Seen pictures. He didn’t realize that the stars are basically just on a normal sidewalk, lined six feet apart with people stepping on them without a thought as they pass.</p><p>Ian snaps some pictures to send home, then he and Mickey loop around and take the short path to the TCL Chinese Theatre, where they’re able to see the celebrity hand and footprints.</p><p>It’s insanely crowded to the point of being uncomfortable, but Mickey surprisingly indulges Ian, letting him think things are cool, standing around awkwardly while he takes his pictures of the imprints of <i>Star Wars</i> and <i>Star Trek</i> characters, Harrison Ford, Clint Eastwood, and John Wayne.</p><p>They then find the star for Mickey Mouse on the sidewalk, and after a group of tourists clear, Ian motions for Mickey to get in a picture.</p><p>“No fuckin’ way,” Mickey complains, shoving his hands in the front pocket of his Nirvana hoodie.</p><p>“Mickey. C’mon.” Ian gives him a leveling stare. “It’s your namesake.” </p><p>Mickey pulls his hands from his hoodie for just long enough to give Ian the double finger, then shoves them back in. “Fuck off.”</p><p>But he does it without needing to be asked again, sighing loudly like an annoyed kid and crouching down by Mickey Mouse’s star.</p><p>Ian, beaming, takes his picture, then asks Mickey to take one of him in front of the Chinese Theatre.</p><p>---</p><p>They get caramel ice blended coffee drinks from The Coffee Bean &amp; Tea Leaf as they double back to the parking garage, and once they’re in the Camaro, Mickey puts on his <i>indie hipster fucks</i> Spotify playlist, which they <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1kwj_X1PVDU">listen to</a> as they drink their iced coffees and head toward Sunset Blvd.</p><p>“Okay, so this is the place with all the clubs and billboards and shit,” Mickey mentions as they get onto the Sunset Strip several minutes later. “Probably seen it on TV.”</p><p>It’s midday, and it’d likely look more spectacular at night, but Ian gets to see The Viper Room, which Mickey tells Ian about, takes pictures of the streets lined with endless billboards and palm trees, and when they come across Whisky a Go Go, Ian says, “Am I insane, or is this in <i>GTA</i>?”</p><p>Mickey smirks. “Yeah. Tequi-la-la.”</p><p>From there, they hit Beverly Hills, and Mickey pulls into an underground parking garage and he and Ian walk Rodeo Drive. </p><p>“So like, do you shop here?” Ian asks as they pass by the Gucci store, which is visually stunning enough that he takes a picture. There’s a Gucci store on Michigan in Chicago, but it looks nothing like this one.</p><p>Mickey <i>chhh</i>s and shoves his hands in his hoodie pockets. “Fuck no.”</p><p>“Why not? You can afford it.”</p><p>“The fuck would I wanna wear a thousand dollar shirt?”</p><p>Ian shrugs. “‘cause you can.”</p><p>“There’s a lotta shit I do ‘cause I can. That ain’t one of ‘em.”</p><p>They’re quiet as they walk down the street then hang a right at Cartier. As they loop around and hit N. Beverly, Mickey adds, “People send me shit, and I wear it ‘cause it’s free. Got some Paul Smith. Some streetwear stuff. Pretty much every line that makes floral print shirts.”</p><p>Ian chuckles. Eyes him.</p><p>“But I dunno. I don’t really care about money and shit past what I need, and I don’t need like, a fuckin’... Gucci jockstrap or whatever.”</p><p>“Sure about that?”</p><p>Mickey steps close so that he and Ian bump shoulders. “Fuck off.”</p><p>“Might look kinda good, y’know.”</p><p>“‘course it would.”</p><p>“Oh, confident, are we?”</p><p>“<i>Chhh</i>.”</p><p>Ian bites his lip to contain his grin.</p><p>N. Beverly isn’t nearly as crowded as Rodeo, and pretty soon, they’ve nearly made a complete circle, about to cut back onto Dayton on their way to the parking garage.</p><p>But before they do, Ian stops suddenly in his tracks. “Wait,” he says, turning back to get a better look at the shop they’ve just passed carelessly. “This is the fuckin’...store from <i>Pretty Woman</i>.”</p><p>He takes a picture of it, and Mickey stares at him blankly.</p><p>“You know,” Ian encourages. “Big mistake. Big. Huge!”</p><p>“I have <i>never</i> seen that movie.”</p><p>“Oh, c’mon.” Ian shoves him like he thinks Mickey’s just playing around and, as they walk by, on their way back to the parking garage, Ian pulls up a <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VxcU4q6KLyA">YouTube clip</a> of the scene and shows it to Mickey.</p><p>“Why do you know this?” he asks, handing back Ian’s phone as they turn onto Dayton.</p><p>“Uhh, perks of growing up with a VHS player way past its time and an older sister who loves that movie, I guess.”</p><p>Mickey rolls his eyes but smiles. He gives Ian a playful shove on the shoulder as they make their way down the street.</p><p>“Alright,” he says. “Come on, Pretty Woman.”</p><p>---</p><p>After Rodeo drive, they climb back in the car, and Mickey gets on the Santa Monica Freeway and drives them half an hour to the beach.</p><p>When they arrive at Santa Monica Pier, it’s nearly six. They circle the parking lot for what feels like an hour until they’re able to find a spot, then climb out. Ian pulls on a zip-up sweatshirt over his T-shirt, the breeze from the Pacific giving him chills, and Mickey pulls on a black beanie.</p><p>For the longest time, Ian just stands there outside the car, leaning against the passenger door, staring out at the beach and the ocean.</p><p>“What’s up?” Mickey asks, curious, and Ian shrugs, pushing away from the vehicle. “Never seen the ocean before.”</p><p>“Oh shit, yeah.” Mickey seems sweetly excited for a moment before tamping it back. “Forgot about that, man.”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“Well, hey.” Mickey comes around to Ian’s side and sucks his bottom lip for a moment, shrugging. “Take off your shoes, let’s go.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Ya heard me, Pretty Woman.”</p><p>Ian, looking around, pulls his leg up to get at his shoe before Mickey stops him. “I didn’t mean like, <i>now</i>, dumbass. You’re gonna get stuck with a fuckin’ heroin needle.”</p><p>“Oh.”</p><p>Mickey shoves him and takes off toward the beach, Ian scrambling to follow.</p><p>---</p><p>Boots are probably not the most fortuitous choice to wear on the beach, but after a quick scan, it isn’t like most people are in swimwear, anyway, the temperature in the low 60s. The beach is scattered with young couples on beach blankets, talking and laughing, older couples in beach chairs, reading books. People are in jeans and long-sleeved shirts. Kids are running around in windbreakers, playing games in the sand.</p><p>There are only a handful of people even bothering with the ocean, the water too cold to swim, so Ian and Mickey are able to pick a spot near the pier to pull off their boots and socks.</p><p>They roll up their pants to their calves and, just to say they did, step to the edge of the ocean, right where the approaching waves are beginning to peter out into froth.</p><p>The water feels cold as shit, and Ian jerks when it washes up over his feet, but he can’t help but laugh like a dumb kid, amazed in his heart and in his belly that he’s at the real, live ocean on a real, live beach.</p><p>He stares out at the vastness of the Pacific, sees the tiny speck of a boat in the distance, spies seabirds and whitecaps of waves and a plane flying off overhead.</p><p>Here, Ian feels small, but he feels powerful, the earth endless, Mickey beautiful and beside him with a smile on his face.</p><p>Ian turns back to the ocean, then peers down the shore. And when he twists back around to say something to Mickey, he sees Mickey’s got his phone out. </p><p>“What?” Ian asks, brow raised.</p><p>Mickey shrugs and shoves his phone in his back pocket.</p><p>“Did you just take my picture?”</p><p>“Nope.”</p><p>Ian gives him a look, and Mickey rolls his eyes at him and reaches down to pick up his shoes. </p><p>“Alright, c’mon,” he says. “Let’s go get a dog.”</p><p>They walk the pier for about an hour, buying funky, Japanese-inspired hot dogs from a food stand and then wandering around, seeing the sights, watching people on the carnival-style rides, and leaning over the guardrails, peering off into the distance.</p><p>A kid comes up to Mickey while they’re leaning, backs against the rail, watching the ferris wheel. He’s about ten, round with short blond hair and a wash of sunburn across the bridge of his nose.</p><p>“Are you MICK MILK?” he asks, twisting the front of his sweatshirt. He looks back over his shoulder at his parents, who are standing four feet away, a pig-tailed girl in a stroller in front of them.</p><p>Ian steps back, wanting to give Mickey space, and watches.</p><p>“Uh, yeah, hey,” he says, voice softening in the same sort of way it did with Liam at Christmas--not condescending, not overtly <i>nice</i>, just comforting, almost, like he’s not wanting to make the kid feel bad about talking to him. “What’s your name?”</p><p>The little boy looks starstruck for a second, smiling like he’s won a million bucks. “Tell him your name, sweetie,” his mom says, and the boy grins up at Mickey and says, “Colin.”</p><p>“Oh yeah?” Mickey says, crouching a little. “I got a brother named Colin.”</p><p>Ian hadn’t known that. He smiles gently, crossing his arms over his chest and watching the exchange.</p><p>Colin starts telling Mickey about all the videos he watches and loves, and Mickey thanks him and offers to take a picture.</p><p>The mom comes over with her phone and snaps a photo of the two, Mickey bending down to head-level with the kid, a hand on his shoulder.</p><p>When the family walks away, Ian strides over and bumps Mickey with his elbow. </p><p>“You’re kinda sweet when you wanna be.”</p><p>Mickey scoffs and bumps him back. “Whatever.”</p><p>The sun’s going down, the skies turning a brilliantly beautiful pink-orange. Ian and Mickey head back down to the beach and park themselves in the sand, far enough away that they can see the ferris wheel in all its glory, lit up now as the skies have begun to darken.</p><p>“Fuckin’ beautiful,” Ian comments, dragging his hands idly through the sand, which is beginning to cool in the absence of direct sunlight.</p><p>Mickey nods, and Ian cuts his eyes toward him, watching him lean back on his palms to view the sunset.</p><p>“Hey,” Ian murmurs, turning back to the sunset before Mickey can glance his way.</p><p>“Will you shut the fuck up for thirty seconds?”</p><p>Ian licks his bottom lip. Smiles. </p><p>Yeah, okay, Mickey.</p><p>He was going to maybe tell him he likes hanging out with him. That he’s had a fun day.</p><p>But this is just as good, really. Ian leans back on his own palms, legs straight in front of him, and taps his right boot to Mickey’s left.</p><p>And like that, they watch <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/d6e2403a776cc3e96ec7f904c5d31ad9/29fb14038dc3c454-a1/s1280x1920/a57eecd6818880376d7ae65dc5aebc6ebdc7b93e.jpg">the sunset</a>.</p><p>---</p><p>It’s 7:30 and nearly completely dark by the time they get back in the car. Traffic is fucking horrendous, both coming out of the pier parking lot and getting back onto the freeway.</p><p>Mickey’s a competent driver, but he gets frustrated, swearing and flipping off cars even when they had zero fault in the matter.</p><p>Once they’re on the road, cruising at a consistent speed, Mickey turns to face Ian, just briefly, before turning back and then thumbing at his nose with his free hand.</p><p>“What?” Ian asks, leaning against the side of the door, getting comfortable in the darkness.</p><p>Mickey sucks his lips. “Ya wanna get a pizza or something? I’m still fuckin’ starving.”</p><p>Ian calls in a Pizza Hut order for a medium extra pepperoni, and the two of them pick it up from the location back near Sunset Blvd and carry it home.</p><p>After quickly heading inside to get a beer for Mickey and a Dr. Pepper for Ian, they go down to the first floor and through the door by the stairs Ian had assumed was a storage closet.</p><p>And it is, sort of, but a nearly full-sized basement area would be a more accurate description, despite the fact that it isn’t below ground level.</p><p>It’s absolutely <i>packed</i> with boxes, and there are articles of clothing hanging on racks on wheels. While many of the boxes are Home Depot-brand moving boxes, labeled things in Mickey’s messy scrawl, about a third of them are shipping boxes, their tops slit open.</p><p>“What is this?” Ian asks, carrying the drinks in his hands as he and Mickey make their way down a cleared path toward a door to the patio area.</p><p>“Like I said, I get sent a ton of shit.”</p><p>“Seriously? This is like, thousands of dollars worth of stuff.”</p><p>Mickey shrugs, unlocks the patio door, and elbows it open. “Some of it’s shit from fans, too. Mo won’t let me throw it away.”</p><p>“Good.”</p><p>Mickey makes a jerk-off motion with his right hand, balancing the pizza box on his left.</p><p>They set the pizza and drinks on the <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/c581666862d5044719d1f474c03153a9/d9bd92cd8ca5dbd4-7f/s640x960/4e0833ab55f7866016b83407a6938415f40f5553.jpg">white table</a> and have a seat, one on either side of it, then dig in.</p><p>It’s a nice night. Upper 50s. Jacket weather. Mickey’s got his security lights going, casting a warm glow about the area, and all that’s needed is, well…</p><p>Mickey pulls his phone from his pocket, turns the volume all the way up, and starts up his <i>quiet shit for night</i> playlist, Cigarettes After Sex’s “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C2Jz3vMYSJc">Nothing’s Gonna Hurt You Baby</a>” first on the shuffle.</p><p>It’s dreamy where they are--that time of night, that location, with that weather and that music. They eat the entire pizza together, quiet mostly, only occasionally making a comment about something or another.</p><p>“So how’d you like the Let’s Play shit?” Mickey asks at one point, reaching in for his fourth piece of pizza.</p><p>Ian hums at Mickey’s question. He has to think about it. </p><p>He liked it. Mostly what he liked, though, was just being there with Mickey. Doing something together that he enjoys.</p><p>“It was fun,” Ian answers, mouth full of pizza. “I mean, not really lookin’ for a life as a YouTuber, but I’d do that kinda thing again. Like, guest-starring in shit.”</p><p>Mickey snorts. “Jesus Christ.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“<i>Guest-starring</i>, A-list. And tryna imagine you as a YouTuber.”</p><p>“Hey! Fans would love me.”</p><p>“Uh huh, Heat Miser.”</p><p>Ian tosses a pizza crust at Mickey and laughs when it bonks him on the forehead. </p><p>The song changes to Tashaki Miyaki’s cover of “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LcB3J5-M2oE">I Only Have Eyes for You</a>.” Ian eats his last slices of pizza and grabs his drink, sipping it slowly.</p><p>The song’s romantic. Ian’s not usually into the vibe of songs like it, but he is now. It feels like music played while you’re underwater, summer nights in the swimming pool, someone having brought out a boombox. </p><p>They’re quiet for the longest time while Mickey finishes up the pizza. Ian peers out at the lights of the neighborhood in the distance.</p><p>He’s going to miss it. More than that, he’s going to miss Mickey.</p><p>He checks the time. 11:16 Chicago time. 9:16 LA time.</p><p>Counts the hours. Mo had texted him earlier with his flight time--10:20 AM, so he’ll need to be at LAX bright and early. That’s, what? Ten or so hours left here at Mickey’s house? Ten more hours with Mickey to himself.</p><p>He must look thoughtful, still staring at his watch and spinning it idly on his wrist, as Mickey clears his throat.</p><p>“What’s up?”</p><p>Ian sniffs. “Nothing. Just thinking.”</p><p>Mickey studies him for a long moment, eyes soft. He opens his mouth, works it open and shut, just barely, just enough to reveal he wants to say something and is trying to get it out.</p><p>Finally, he swallows heavily and asks, sending Ian’s brain temporarily offline, “Do you gotta go like, take your pills or whatever?”</p><p>“What?” His limbs go slack like he’s lost his muscles, fucking noodle arms.</p><p>Mickey looks away, clearly embarrassed, before seemingly forcing himself to look back. “Yeah. I mean. Sorta obvious, y’know. You disappear into the bathroom every morning and night. When we were at the hotel, you’d sometimes take your bag in with you.” Mickey shrugs. “Just figured you were takin’ something.”</p><p>Ian rubs his hand over his face, the tips of his ears burning. He feels like he’s been caught in the act, like someone’s pushed him into a swimming pool and forced him to swim rather than allowing him to slink in, inch by inch.</p><p>He blows out a breath.</p><p>“It’s cool,” Mickey says, backing off. He presses his lips together and starts looking around the yard as if searching for another subject to address.</p><p>Will Mickey hate him? What'll happen when he tells him?</p><p>Ian swallows, belly in knots. <i>Bipolar. Bipolar. I'm bipolar. I have a disease.</i> His breath speeds with nerves.</p><p>He catches Mickey's eye. Tries to tell him telepathically. <i>I'm bipolar. Do you know what that is? Is it okay with you that sometimes I'm sick?</i> It'll kill him if it isn't. Obliterate him. He wants to cry with the thought.</p><p>"Hey," Mickey murmurs, eyes softening impossibly. "You alright, man?"</p><p>Sink or swim. Ian runs a hand over his face, leans in, and with his eyes closed, murmurs, “I’m bipolar.”</p><p>Mickey pauses, tongue mid-lip-lick and frozen. A complicated expression passes over his face like a raincloud before disappearing.</p><p>“Bipolar,” he says, voice even. “That’s like…”</p><p>“It’s a mood disorder. Swinging from high-highs to low-lows. Mania, depression. I’m stable right now. Doing well with my meds. Won’t always be, but…” Ian trails off and watches Mickey’s face carefully.</p><p>Watches for rejection.</p><p>And there <i>is</i> something there. But when it manifests as words, it isn’t what Ian thought it would be.</p><p>“Yeah. I’ve heard of it.” Mickey swipes his thumb across his nose, eyes wandering from Ian’s face. “Sucks, man.”</p><p>Ian blows out a breath. “Yeah.”</p><p>“But you’re okay?”</p><p>“I’m good. Y’know, I deal with it still. My whole life, probably. But my meds are working right now, and I feel pretty good.”</p><p>“Good.”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>It’s awkward but comforting in its awkwardness. It’s clear that Mickey’s putting in effort to be kind, and it’s for some reason so far from what Ian had thought--his worst fears being Mickey blowing him off, thinking he was a freak--that it makes his breath pick up. It makes him want to cry a little, his eyes tearing up like a fucking pussy.</p><p>He looks away. Picks up his pop and takes a heavy sip to refocus Mickey’s attention.</p><p>“So <i>that</i>’s why you don’t drink,” Mickey comments, a piece of the puzzle clicking into place.</p><p>Ian laughs breathily into his drink can. “Yeah. I mean, I do sometimes, but my meds basically just get me wasted crazy-fast if I don’t take my time with it.” He shrugs. “Didn’t really wanna get hammered while we were hooking up.”</p><p>Mickey tilts his head in an expression of <i>fair enough</i>.</p><p>Ian studies him, heart hammering, body surging with a tentative relief that makes him brave.</p><p>“Another thing,” he says, setting down his Dr. Pepper.</p><p>Mickey raises his brows at him.</p><p>“When I said I didn’t know how many guys I’ve slept with, it was because when I was manic, I worked in a club and did some shit. Drugs. Sex, for pay and not. So.”</p><p>He fidgets with the sleeves of his jacket, self-conscious, cheeks burning.</p><p>“I’ve done some crazy shit, too,” he adds.</p><p>“Like what?”</p><p>“Mm.” Ian takes a deep, steadying breath. “Remember the identity theft thing?”</p><p>Mickey nods.</p><p>“That. Tried to steal a helicopter. Got on my meds then off my meds. Stole a car and went on an eighty-mile joyride that ended with me getting arrested.”</p><p>“Shit.”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>Ian looks up at Mickey, whose eyes are soft. Searching. He bites his lips, one at a time.</p><p>“You're good now, though,” he says, gentle, and Ian nods at him.</p><p>“Yeah. I was...sick, then.” </p><p>Mickey swallows, Adam's apple bobbing. He nods, completely accepting of Ian's words, and it means so much to Ian that he feels something inside him break and then repair itself.</p><p>“Sorry you deal with that shit,” Mickey murmurs, and he’s so sincere, is being so stupidly <i>perfect</i> about it. Ian looks away again. Brings his drink to his lips once more, feeling his eyes water.</p><p>Mickey takes a drink of his beer and doesn’t cut his eyes away from Ian. “Glad you’re okay now.”</p><p>“Yeah. Me too.”</p><p>---</p><p>They head into the house ten minutes later. Ian runs upstairs to take his meds, changes into pajamas, and then comes back downstairs to the kitchen, where Mickey’s making microwave s’mores. It’s the most random and adorable thing Ian’s ever seen.</p><p>He perches on one of the barstools and waits for Mickey to finish microwaving their desserts.</p><p>Mickey’s got it down to a science, and it makes Ian’s heart glad to consider that this is something Mickey does often enough to know the exact number of seconds to melt a marshmallow onto a block of chocolate.</p><p>Once the s’mores are done, Mickey puts them on disposable plates, and the two of them munch them quietly.</p><p>Ian eyes the clock on the microwave. 9:52 PM. A little over nine hours left now.</p><p>When they’re done with their desserts, they trash their plates. Mickey wanders around the kitchen for a minute, picking up random objects. Biting his lip.</p><p>Finally, as if having worked himself up to it, Mickey crosses over to a random cabinet, pulls it open, and takes down the 90-day supply of sertraline Ian had seen in his toiletry bag.</p><p>“I know you’ve seen them,” he says, voice soft, giving them a shake, the pills rattling in the bottle.</p><p>Ian shrugs. Yeah, he has.</p><p>Mickey rolls the bottle in his hands as if he’s contemplating putting it back without addressing the matter, but in the last moment, he sets it down on the island.</p><p>Takes a deep, steadying breath, eyes shutting for a moment before opening. “PTSD. Depression.” The words are forced out like they’re unbearably difficult to speak.</p><p>Ian thinks about Mickey on Christmas Eve. Thinks about how the dosage has been upped and how he shouldn’t know that. Thinks about the cigarette burns on Mickey’s back and his misshapen ribs. Thinks about things that cause PTSD. Little boys and their fathers.</p><p>“I’m fucked up sometimes,” Mickey says when Ian doesn’t respond to his confession. His eyes touch the island. The bottle. Ian, just briefly, then back down.</p><p>“Mickey,” Ian says, trying to meet his eyes.</p><p>“I mean, you said your stuff, so I thought I’d tell you mine. There’s more, I just…” He looks away completely, is silent for the longest time. Ian's heart <i>aches</i> for him.</p><p>He swallows heavily, watching Mickey from behind as he reaches up and pinches at the bridge of his nose. Shifts on his feet. Sighs and turns back to Ian, his expression schooled. Poker-faced.</p><p>Ian doesn’t let him worry any further, desperate to reassure him, to accept him and everything that he is, in all ways, just like Mickey had done to him.</p><p>"Thanks for telling me," he murmurs, wanting so badly to reach out and touch, fingers itching with it. Mickey wouldn't like it though, his body straight, bowstring tight and not guarded but on guard as if waiting to react, fight or flight.</p><p>So instead, Ian says, voice whisper-soft, “I’m sorry you’re dealing with that, Mickey.”</p><p>It’s a regurgitation of Mickey’s words, really, but Ian means them sincerely, and he hopes Mickey knows that. Hopes he finds in it all the things Ian wants to say and do. Through his eyes, focused on Mickey's precious face, he sends him comfort.</p><p>Mickey nods, swallowing heavily, and picks up the pill bottle.</p><p>Once it’s back in the cabinet, he comes closer to Ian, leaning against the side of the island closest to where Ian’s sitting.</p><p>“When I was sixteen, I tried to kill myself.”</p><p>Ian’s heart sinks into his belly.</p><p>“I was really um, <i>bad</i>, like, mentally and shit ‘til I got help, so.” He sighs. “Was on two medications at one point, was able to stop takin’ the second about a year ago. I’m… I dunno.”</p><p>“Mickey,” Ian says, and it’s soft, and all he wants is to tell him how amazing he is.</p><p>Mickey raises his brows at him. <i>Hm</i>s.</p><p>“I’m happy you’re here” is what he says, and Mickey presses his lips together so hard they turn white in the middle. </p><p>He turns away quickly and moves over to the fridge, and Ian knows he isn’t imagining things when he catches him swiping his eyes while he’s bent to grab a beer from the bottom shelf.</p><p>---</p><p>It’s relatively early when they go to bed. Before eleven, at least. Mickey sets his phone alarm for six, and the two of them undress to just their underwear and climb under the duvet.</p><p>They lie there together in the dark. After everything, Ian just wants to be close.</p><p>He twists onto his side, head resting on his palm, and watches Mickey's face. Counts the hours he has left with him.</p><p>He sighs, murmurs, “Thanks for today.”</p><p>Mickey turns on his side, as well, and gives an amused puff of air out his nose. “Had to show Miley the sights.”</p><p>“Uh huh.”</p><p>“<i>Chh</i>.”</p><p>Ian smiles, warmth in his belly over the beautiful, incredible man in front of him.</p><p>“When will you be back in Chicago?” he asks, watching Mickey’s shining eyes.</p><p>Mickey sniffs. Hums. “Not sure.”</p><p>“Cool.”</p><p>Ian flops onto his back again. Looks up at the golden light-streaks on the ceiling.</p><p>“Soon,” Mickey says finally, and Ian feels him turning onto his own back. He tilts his head. Checks. Yes. Turns back.</p><p>They’re quiet for two minutes, the only sound that of their breathing.</p><p>“Would you ever call me?” Ian asks suddenly, the words barely even a thought in his mind before they’re spilling from his lips. He’s almost shocked at himself, the simple question feeling bold somehow. Bolder than the sex they have.</p><p>There’s a gentle smack to his bare belly under the covers, a little <i>thwap</i> sound.</p><p>Ian rolls his head to the side, watching Mickey, who’s got his head rolled to watch him.</p><p>“I hate talkin’ on the phone, man,” he complains, voice dramatically grumbly like his mom’s just asked him to clean his room.</p><p>Ian smiles at him. “Then FaceTime me.”</p><p>Mickey blows out a sweet little breath, eyes sparkling with playful, put-upon annoyance. “Yeah, yeah, whatever.”</p><p>“Whatever?”</p><p>“Ya heard what I said.”</p><p>“Oh, I did, did I?” Ian scoots closer and well, what the hell, places his hand on Mickey’s stomach, which is soft, warm, and jumping with a held-in giggle.</p><p>“Yes.” Mickey smiles, and it’s the sweetest smile that’s ever been on his face. Pure happiness. </p><p>Ian moves closer and closer. Tosses a leg over his hips under the covers and then looks down at him. Watching.</p><p><i>Let him do it first</i>.</p><p>There’s a reason for it, Ian knows. He’s going to trust it. Trust Mo.</p><p>But all he can think as he lies atop Mickey in the dark of a beautiful Los Angeles night is that he wants to taste the smile on his mouth.</p><p>They have sex. It’s laugh-filled, athletic at times and then softer, slower. And at the end, Mickey tilts onto his side, Ian between his legs, and whispers, “Holy fuck, holy fuck, you feel so good, you’re so good.”</p><p>Ian bites Mickey’s shoulder, licks at his neck, sucks at his jaw and murmurs, “You’re so fuckin’ beautiful” as he comes inside him.</p><p>Afterward, they’re sweaty and messy. One of them grabs a handful of tissues and does a cursory wipe-down. No one makes a move to part.</p><p>They fall asleep together, a bundle of limbs, and it’s the first time that’s ever happened.</p><p>---</p><p>The next morning, Ian takes his pills at the sink without shame while Mickey combs his hair after his shower. Mickey thumps him on the back of the neck when he passes by him on his way to the bedroom, and it feels like an acknowledgment and it feels proud and it feels sweet in a way that gives Ian butterflies.</p><p>Once Ian’s ready to go, he and Mickey climb into the Camaro and take off for LAX. Ian dozes on the way there, and Mickey wakes him with a poke to his shoulder when they’re five minutes away.</p><p>Mickey drives to the drop-off area in front of Ian’s terminal. Idles there. Pops his trunk.</p><p>They have to be moving along quickly, so there isn’t time for a long discussion or an involved goodbye.</p><p>The engine hums and some of Mickey’s music plays low.</p><p>“So FaceTime, huh?” Ian asks, letting his hand reach across to rest on Mickey’s shoulder.</p><p>“You’re so fuckin’ annoying.”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>Ian beams.</p><p>“Anyway, thanks again. I had fun.”</p><p>“Yeah. Good.”</p><p>Mickey presses his lips together hard but not as hard as last night. He wanders his eyes around the interior of the car--everywhere but Ian. Swallows loudly.</p><p>“‘kay,” Ian says, undoing his seatbelt. “Gotta go.”</p><p>“Yup. Yeah.” Mickey <i>chh</i>s a little bit, but it’s extraordinarily faint, like he’s doing it for his ears only.</p><p>Someone honks their horn, and Mickey reaches into the backseat with his middle finger raised.</p><p>“Bye, Mickey,” Ian says, popping the door. He elbows it open. Gets one leg out.</p><p>And then, before he can second-guess himself, he turns around, wraps his arm around Mickey’s neck, and pulls him in for a hug that’s not so much a hug but a body-press--Mickey’s warmth against his. Mickey’s smell. Mickey’s minty breath.</p><p>His forehead is an inch away from his lips, and Ian can’t help himself. He leans in and pecks him there, loud and sweet, and then lets Mickey go with a squeeze.</p><p>“Dick,” Mickey says as Ian’s climbing from the car, and all Ian can hear in it is affection.</p><p>---</p><p>It feels like an endless wait in the airport that morning. After checking in and printing his boarding pass, getting through security and then finding his gate, Ian buys a breakfast croissant and coffee at Dunkin’ and eats it while scanning through the pictures on his phone.</p><p>He lingers over the selfie of him and Mickey, the beauty of Los Angeles behind them. Smiles.</p><p>The selfies were originally taken on Mickey’s phone, and Ian wonders if he’s kept them. He hopes so. He enlarges the photo, looks at Mickey’s face. Thinks about him. Thinks about all that he is and isn’t. All the good he brings into the world, and how his very existence is making someone’s life better.</p><p>He cares for him. It’s obvious. As obvious as breathing. And when Ian thinks about what Mickey’s been through, thinks about how what he now knows isn’t even all of it, his heart fills with pain at what he’s dealt with. Fills with pride that he’s made it to where he is. Fills with longing--to kiss him, hug him, make him smile.</p><p>Fills with love.</p><p>It’s a new thought, a new feeling, but Ian’s certain it’s there, bubbling up from the depths of his heart. </p><p>It’s inevitable. Unstoppable.</p><p>He’s falling in love with Mickey Milkovich. </p><p>---</p><p>Just before his flight takes off, while he’s in his seat, checking his phone one last time before switching it into airplane mode, Ian receives a notification from Instagram that <b>nightmarehour</b> has tagged him in a photo.</p><p>His heart stops. Belly twists.</p><p>Quickly, he pulls up Mickey’s profile to find that he’s posted a photo set of three pictures, all from Santa Monica Pier, captioned ☀️.</p><p>The first two are scenery. The ocean, blue and beautiful. The ferris wheel, photo filter turning the red and yellow carts vibrant against the brilliance of the sky.</p><p>The last, though. </p><p>The last is a photo of Ian staring out at the water, a soft, pensive look on his face, his hair coppery and shining in the sun.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Some fun facts about Chapter 8:<br/>-Title comes from "Want You In My Room" by Carly Rae Jepsen</p><p>-<b>Artwork Time!</b> I'm so genuinely blown away by the amount of talent in this fandom and by the kindness and support that you all give to me through your art. You're amazing, and I appreciate you more than you know.</p><p>Such incredible and impressively realistic manips by <b>figallagher</b> 🤩 -- <a href="https://figallagher.tumblr.com/post/645758147736322048/bffs-from-cg-gallavichy">1</a>, <a href="https://figallagher.tumblr.com/post/645766873795969024/he-really-gave-me-the-beanie-cg-gallavichy">2</a><br/>The most ridiculously great art, a collab between <b>Steorie</b> and <b>WhatsaMattavich</b> over which I'm in complete awe ♥️ -- <a href="https://steorie.tumblr.com/post/646191819148902400">Click!</a><br/>Beautiful manips by <b>theunforgivngminute</b> 💖 -- <a href="https://theunforgivngminute.tumblr.com/post/646210808632754176">Click!</a><br/>The <i>cutest</i> art by <b>grumpymickmilk</b> of Mickey with his zit patches 👼 -- <a href="https://grumpymickmilk.tumblr.com/post/646386546246860800/mickey-with-his-star-shaped-zit-patches-from">Click!</a><br/>The precious manip of beanie!Ian by <b>gallavichobsessed101</b> ☀️ -- <a href="https://gallavichobsessed101.tumblr.com/post/647670048625950720">Click!</a><br/>The most <i>detailed</i>, amazing manips by <b>wwasted</b> 😍 -- <a href="https://gimmeyerbrains.livejournal.com/544.html">Click!</a></p><p>♥️♥️♥️</p><p>-Mickey's opinions on both In-N-Out and Ringo Starr are his own. 😬 </p><p>-Interior descriptions of Mickey's home are completely made up. The house in the photo is just a reference off of which I built.</p><p>-It's really important to me that Mickey's home and possessions aren't lavish. He has a gorgeous home, but he fills it with moderately-priced items, he doesn't spend thousands of dollars on clothes, and even his car, while cool, is reasonable.</p><p>-I didn't embed it in the fic, but <a href="https://society6.com/sidedimes">here</a> is a link to the paintings above Mandy's bed.</p><p>-I originally wrote a detailed journey up to the Hollywood sign, and then I found that the trail I had Ian and Mickey using has been closed for years. So! I basically just changed the starting point by name, removed the trail names, and left it as is. If anyone's super familiar with the area and notices anything weird, that's why.</p><p>-Ian and Mo eat at Trattoria Farfalla Los Feliz.</p><p>-I've chosen to make this Mickey more aware of bipolar disorder than canon Mickey, if only because I feel like 21-year-olds nowadays are more aware of various mental illnesses because of social media. They may not know all the details, but with celebrities like Halsey being so open about it, I think it's much more on their radar than it was on canon Mickey's radar.</p><p>-Ian still has Mickey's beanie. Ian left his workout clothes in Mickey's laundry hamper. 🙄</p><p>-If you saw my emoji teaser on Tumblr and are wondering what some of the latter emojis correspond with, it's because I revised a few things at the end for the sheer sake of length because this chapter would be literally 40k if I'd left everything in; however! I'm going to try to work it into another chapter later on. There was also supposed to be a scene where Ian arrives back home in Chicago and that's when he sees the photo post (and then he texts Mickey), but again, I didn't want to add any more length to this lol I'll probably add the text to the beginning of the next chapter to bridge the gap between the two.</p><p>-Click <a href="https://gallavichy.tumblr.com/post/634892463411200000/click-here-to-view-the-cooperative">here</a> for the fic playlist, which is updated for each chapter.</p><p> </p><p>Thank you so much for your love and support of this series. I hope you enjoyed this ridiculously long chapter.</p><p>See you next time.</p><p>♥️ Gray</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Boys Don't Cry</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>He cracks his knuckles, heart beating a mile a minute as the front door wrenches open with a rough, dragging sound, Mickey having shoved at it with his shoulder in a way that looked practiced, like he’d done it many times before. <i>This is where Mickey grew up.</i></p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><b>Content Warnings for Chapter 9:</b> graphic-ish descriptions of past child abuse; descriptions and aftermath of domestic violence; homophobic language including the use of slurs directed toward a gay character; graphic descriptions of terminal illness; light violence; violent language</p><p>Please be warned that this chapter is heavy, though it does have a happy ending. Hope you enjoy the journey.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Between the time Ian puts his phone in airplane mode for the trip home from Los Angeles to the time he reconnects to the cell tower after touching down at O’Hare, he gains 419 Instagram followers. It’s the first thing he sees, his phone vibrating in short bursts for no less than fifteen seconds as notification after notification rolls in.</p><p>Followers. Message requests. Tags. He checks Mickey’s Instagram post for the first time in four hours and sees it now has 98,258 likes and 892 comments.</p><p>Jesus Christ. Ian taps the comments and holds his breath. The top five alone give him the strongest flush of embarrassment that he has to leave the app for fear of the man in the seat beside him thinking he’s losing his shit.</p><p>
  <span class="font-small"><b>nightmarehour:</b> ☀️</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">  <b>SneakAttackGames:</b> We’re so damn excited. 😁</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">  <b>mandymilkmustache:</b> ian: “when will my husband return from war?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">  <b>kelia.nightmarefish:</b> A collab???</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">  <b>mickmilklover2:</b> ian 😍😍😍</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">  <b>calistamcpherson472:</b> stop toying with my emotions i need information and i need it now </span>
</p><p>The fact that Mickey posted the picture of him without fear of speculation makes something warm settle in Ian’s belly just as much as it makes his anxiety spike. </p><p>He knows Mickey probably doesn’t care because Ian’s going to be on his YouTube channel the next day, anyway. He’d likely needed to make an Instagram post, looked at the photo of Ian in his camera roll, and figured he’d just make a post about Santa Monica Pier, throwing in that last one as a preview of things to come on <i>Nightmare Hour</i>.</p><p>Still. </p><p>Ian takes a deep breath, blowing it out slowly. The flight attendant comes on, tells the passengers they can unbuckle their seatbelts even though everyone already has. </p><p>He waits until he’s back in and through the airport and just outside the doors to ground transport to text Mickey.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (4:07 PM):</b> You suck</p><p><b>Mickey (4:08 PM):</b> i take it you arrived</p><p><b>Ian (4:08 PM):</b> To 400 new followers</p><p><b>Mickey (4:08 PM):</b> you were gonna get em tomorrow anyway, figured i’d go ahead and rip off the bandaid</p><p><b>Ian (4:08 PM):</b> Thanks for that</p><p><b>Mickey (4:09 PM):</b> no prob</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Ian takes a few minutes to order an Uber, then goes back to his texts. He pinches his bottom lip between his teeth, considering.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (4:14 PM):</b> Thanks</p><p><b>Mickey (4:15 PM):</b> you already thanked me. don’t get a big head, ain’t gonna post another pic of you rn, a-list</p><p><b>Ian (4:16 PM):</b> 🙄</p><p><b>Ian (4:16 PM):</b> For the trip, letting me stay with you, all that</p><p><b>Mickey (4:16 PM):</b> yeah</p><p>------------------------</p><p>The typing dots pop up and bounce for nearly thirty seconds. Ian watches, breath held. </p><p>Nothing comes for so long that he assumes Mickey’s changed his mind about sending the message.</p><p>He goes to switch back over to the Uber app to check the progress of his driver when a message finally comes in.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Mickey (4:18 PM):</b> it was fun</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Ian swallows heavily and moves out the doors to the pick-up curb to wait for a green Prius driven by someone named Danny. Once there, he sets down his duffel between his feet and replies.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (4:21 PM):</b> Yeah it was, you’re a pretty okay tour guide I guess</p><p><b>Mickey (4:21 PM):</b> i’m a great fuckin tour guide, miley</p><p><b>Mickey (4:22 PM):</b> you left some of your shit again btw</p><p><b>Ian (4:22 PM):</b> Shit, my running gear huh</p><p><b>Mickey (4:22 PM):</b> yup</p><p><b>Ian (4:23 PM):</b> I never gave you back your beanie so maybe we can call it even</p><p><b>Mickey (4:23 PM):</b> wtf am i gonna do with your dirty sweatpants. pretty bullshit trade, man</p><p><b>Ian (4:23 PM):</b> Wear them duh</p><p><b>Ian (4:23 PM):</b> If your legs aren’t too short that is 🤭</p><p><b>Mickey (4:24 PM):</b> fuck you</p><p><b>Mickey (4:24 PM):</b> don’t bust the seams in my beanie with your big ass head, motherfucker</p><p><b>Ian (4:24 PM):</b> 😎</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Ian spots his Uber several cars away, slowly making its way down the line toward the curb where he stands.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (4:25 PM):</b> Uber’s here, ttyl</p><p><b>Mickey (4:25 PM):</b> k</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Mickey keeps typing, and Ian waits, breath held, as the dots dance and dance. The car gets closer.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Mickey (4:26 PM):</b> sorry btw if it’s not cool that i posted that pic of you or whatever, i just thought i would</p><p><b>Mickey (4:26 PM):</b> idk if you were joking about bein annoyed or not</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Ian smiles as Danny pulls up right in front of him. He holds up his hand, flagging him down, and then takes the moment between Danny popping his trunk from inside the car and getting out to put in Ian’s duffel to respond, heart alight at the thought that Mickey’s worried he might’ve overstepped with the Instagram post.</p><p>And well, maybe he did. As much as Ian’s belly twists at the notion that Mickey just made a pretty blatant declaration before his four million followers--that he and Ian hung out at Santa Monica Pier on Sunday and that he <i>took a picture of him looking out at the ocean</i> like a dreamy kid--he still doesn’t love all the attention.</p><p>It’s <i>fine</i>. At first, it was even sort of cool, a nice little boost to his ego that made him feel good about himself during a moment in his life in which he didn’t. But he still can’t shake the unease over people actively talking about him, speculating about his relationships, casually discussing his appearance, and commenting on his posts as if he can’t read.</p><p>Even still, he knows Mickey didn’t mean to make him feel weird, and anyway, as strange as it is, it ultimately serves to mostly make his heart warm. He thinks of the simple sun emoji and allows his lips to upturn in another smile.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (4:27 PM):</b> It’s cool, but I gotta warn you</p><p><b>Mickey (4:27 PM):</b> ???</p><p><b>Ian (4:27 PM):</b> Once I hit 2k followers I’m gonna do an Instagram Live Q&amp;A, so as exciting and up-and-coming as I may be, go sparingly with your promos </p><p><b>Ian (4:28 PM):</b> At this rate I might hit that total tonight</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Ian waits until he’s in the backseat of the car and has confirmed his address to Danny to check Mickey’s response.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Mickey (4:28 PM):</b> i’m gonna block you</p><p>------------------------</p><p>He nearly laughs out loud.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (4:32 PM):</b> Do it??? Not like I care, you don’t even follow me.</p><p><b>Mickey (4:32 PM):</b> and i’m never going to</p><p><b>Ian (4:32 PM):</b> Good, I don’t want you to</p><p><b>Mickey (4:32 PM):</b> uh huh sure</p><p><b>Ian (4:33 PM):</b> 🤪</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Mickey Milkovich is going to kill him someday.</p><p>---</p><p>It’s a half-hour Uber ride home from the airport, and Ian spends most of the time once more braving Instagram comments--both on Mickey’s post and on his own posts, which are quickly gaining attention. To keep himself at least a little bit sane, he turns off like and comment notifications for everyone except the people he follows and makes it so that he’s no longer notified when he receives direct message requests.</p><p>Then, in an act that essentially undoes his attempt to restore peace to his mind, he swipes over to Twitter. Unfortunately, it’s exactly as much of a mess as he thought it was going to be.</p><p>It’s clear his timeline is currently at end-stage meltdown, the majority of it having taken place several hours prior. He doesn’t dare scroll too much, but he can’t help but catch one of 👾 madz 👾 posts, which has been retweeted seven times and liked 32.</p><p>He braces himself. Clicks the replies.</p><p>
  <span class="font-small"><b>👾 madz 👾:</b> as;lkdfjal;skdf literally wtf have i been saying</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small"> <b>Mrs. Fuck 🖕 U 🖕 Up:</b> omg 👀</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small"> <b>mick’s black nail:</b> holy shit ur right </span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small"> <b>ROSE 🌹:</b> they aren’t even following each other on insta….</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small"> <b>nightmare babie:</b> ARE THEY DATING I’M GONNA COMMIT 🔪🔪🔪</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small"> <b>Polly ❤️️ Mick 🥛:</b> I thought Ian was dating Mandy??</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">  <b>Nightmare Maggie:</b> no, they’re just friends.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">   <b>mick’s black nail:</b> 👀👀 i see u mags</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small"> <b>jelly:</b> they’re friends??? why do you gotta make everything sexual?? weirdo behavior</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">  <b>mick’s beanie:</b> smells like home of phobia to me 🙃</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">  <b>Polly ❤️️ Mick 🥛:</b> Ikr, that pisses me off about this fandom</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">  <b>👾 madz 👾:</b> who said anything sexual, you fucking donut. mickey and ian are dating, end of. stop reading shit into this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small"> <b>🦄 Jesse:</b> Idk. Its just a picture. Maybe Ian is visiting or maybe he moved to LA. We don’t know.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">  <b>Mrs. Milk:</b> ☝️</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small"> <b>Mrs. Milk:</b> imma need yall to calm down, there are 100 reasons why ian could be in la with mick and none of them are romantic</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">  <b>Mrs. Milk:</b> i mean he literally just did a livestream with him last month, who says he isn’t recording with him</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small"> <b>Nightmare Maggie:</b> let’s just respect their privacy, please, and hope they’re happy and having a good time 😊 </span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">  <b>🦄 Jesse:</b> Ita 🤗</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">  <b>👾 madz 👾:</b> literally who tf is being disrespectful? i just made a comment based on a picture he posted publicly with a fcking ☀️</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">  <b>mick’s black nail:</b> giving u my hardest  👀👀  yet</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">  <b>nightmare babie:</b> how is this not confirmation omg maggie</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">   <b>Nightmare Maggie:</b> nope, definitely not confirming anything! just think we shouldn’t speculate. ❤️️</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">    <b>👾 madz 👾:</b>you are so fucking weird jesus christ</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">  <b>Keira:</b> Will you stop fucking implying shit, pretending you know more than you do?</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small">  <b>Keira:</b> They’re doing a collab. SneakAttack literally just commented on the picture.</span>
</p><p>Fuck. Well, he’s at least glad someone noticed the SneakAttack comment. Curious, he taps over to Nightmare Maggie’s account and sees her most recent Twitter thread.</p><p>
  <span class="font-small"><b>Nightmare Maggie:</b> ian and mickey are currently working together on something for sneakattack. their relationship is platonic. stop with the rest of the speculation. it’s pointless and disrespectful as hell and i’m not sharing any info with anybody.</span>
</p><p>which comes only an hour after her previous post:</p><p>
  <span class="font-small"><b>Nightmare Maggie:</b> the speculation is really tiresome. all fans need to do in situations like this is hope for ian and mickey’s happiness and mind their own business. the nature of ian and mickey’s relationship is no one’s business but their own, so shut up about it. </span>
</p><p>Not that he has anything <i>in particular</i> against Nightmare Maggie other than her tendency to pretend she knows more than she does, but he can’t help but feel a thrill run through his body when he views the replies to her most recent post.</p><p>
  <span class="font-small"><b>Mrs. Milk:</b> lmaoooo as if you have info, you literally just saw sneakattack’s comment on his post. shut the fuck up and get a life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small"><b>Keira:</b> How awkward for you that your attempts to come across as knowing more than you actually do were thwarted by SneakAttack.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small"><b>👾 madz 👾:</b> what info bitch</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small"><b>mick’s black nail:</b> 👀👀</span>
</p><p>The fact that some of Mickey’s fans have started to turn on her sends a weird sizzle down Ian’s spine. He knows it shouldn’t. This sucks for her, and he has to admit that he often relied on her tweets for Mickey information back before they became friends and close enough for him to stay at his house for five days in a row. But now that <i>he</i>’s involved in some of her speculative pseudo-information, watching her get called out is a bit fun for him, if he’s honest.</p><p>He checks Mickey’s mentions because he still does that sometimes. All the most recent ones are tweets of excitement over whatever he’s about to do with SneakAttack, clearly in reaction to Nightmare Maggie’s tweet. Ian doesn’t dare scroll further, knowing that once he gets past the wave of new ones, he’ll hit the speculative relationship shit that makes his heart pound.</p><p>It really is amazing how fast the tide of fandom changes. One new piece of information and the entire timeline shifts focus. In fact, in the time it takes for him to briefly check Mickey’s account and then head back to his timeline, tweets have already started to crop up about how <i>mickeys def playing dust to dust for nh, he already said</i> and <i>Yeah probably SA is talking about him playing their new game releasing tomorrow</i> and <i>wait...ian’s probably collabing w/ him right, that’s what this is i bet! omg can’t wait!</i></p><p>They always figure it out in the end. Ian shrugs and closes out of the app.</p><p>---</p><p>The Gallaghers care both more and much less about his LA trip than he thought they would. Liam’s obsessed with him, of course, wanting to hear every second of his time with Mickey. Ian indulges him--sits with him on the couch, showing him pictures on his phone and telling him about LA and <i>Dust to Dust</i> and Mickey’s house.</p><p>“Did you tell him I want to play with him again?” Liam asks hopefully, and Ian can’t help but smile at him.</p><p>“Yeah. He said he was kind of afraid of you.”</p><p>“Tell him I’ll go easy on him.”</p><p>“I will. Maybe I can get him over here soon?”</p><p>Liam’s face lights up, and though Ian doesn’t know how enthused Mickey would be to come back to the Gallagher house outside of the holiday season, he vows to at least try to convince him. </p><p>Liam doesn’t really get much for himself. He’s smart and kind and doesn’t cause any trouble, so he’s left to his own devices most of the time. Fiona works and worries over Carl, who’s frequently absent. Debbie hates everyone. Lip’s off at college. Ian tries to hang out with his brother when he can, but he’s got his own shit, and it’s hard.</p><p>As for the rest of his family’s reaction to his LA trip, it’s lukewarm to say the least. Carl isn’t home. Debbie asks a few polite questions but soon after leaves the room with her phone, and Fiona just hugs him, says she’s glad he’s back, and leaves to close at Patsy’s, her hair frizzy and under-eye circles dark.</p><p>After Liam eventually gets finished with his questioning, he leaves the room to go do whatever ten-year-olds do, and Ian finds himself alone on the couch, sipping lightly at a beer. </p><p>So is life.</p><p>He’s bored. Everything’s boring as shit since he left LA. He considers FaceTiming Mickey, but he doesn’t even know what they’d talk about. They saw each other that morning. Plus, it’s the day before Mickey’s new series drops on his channel. He’s probably editing. Scheduling uploads. Working on some planned social media stuff.</p><p>Ian finishes his beer and lets it make him tipsy. He checks his phone. Checks Mickey’s Instagram. Refuses to look at the comments or his DMs.</p><p>It’s his night off from work, so he takes his bag upstairs and unpacks, then heads back downstairs to get some leftover pizza from the box balancing precariously on top of the case of Old Style on the bottom shelf of the fridge. He reheats it and is just about to sit down at the kitchen counter to eat when his phone chimes from his pocket.</p><p>He checks it.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Mo (6:38 PM):</b> Hello Sunshine ☀️ Sending you love and hopes that your return trip to Chicago went over without a hitch.</p><p><b>Ian (6:38 PM):</b> Thanks, yeah it was good. Home now so back to my normal life. </p><p><b>Mo (6:39 PM):</b> We enjoyed having you with us in LA. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named especially.</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Ian swallows heavily, hand folding and unfolding his slice of pizza with nerves.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (6:39 PM):</b> It was great, thanks for setting it up. Enjoyed being there with you guys</p><p><b>Mo (6:39 PM):</b> With He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named especially? </p><p><b>Ian (6:40 PM):</b> He wishes 😏</p><p><b>Mo (6:40 PM):</b> 😉❤️️</p><p>------------------------</p><p>He wonders what the likelihood is that she and Mickey are either together or texting each other right now, Mo jumping in and texting Ian so she can report back to Mickey.</p><p>The thought makes his heart warm. It makes him want to give her something to report.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (6:41 PM):</b> 10/10 would do again</p><p><b>Mo (6:41 PM):</b> Ian!</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Jesus Christ.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (6:41 PM):</b> The trip, not Mickey!</p><p><b>Ian (6:41 PM):</b> Well</p><p><b>Mo (6:41 PM):</b> 🙈 </p><p><b>Mo (6:42 PM):</b> I’m not reading this.</p><p>------------------------</p><p>That’s enough of that. Ian quite literally hates himself. He shoves his phone back in his pocket and crams his mouth full of mediocre pizza as a distraction.</p><p>---<br/>
---</p><p><b>HARVEY, HARVEY / Dust to Dust, Pt. 2 (Full Release)</b> drops at 8:00 PM Chicago time on Tuesday, and Ian’s at work. Billie and Gem don’t like crewmembers being on their phones during their shift--all their energy meant to be focused on customers--so he doesn’t actually get to see the initial response until he’s riding the L home at just after midnight.</p><p>He checks Instagram first, as his follower count is usually the first indicator of what’s happening within the MICK MILK fandom, and yeah. Fuck. He’s already at 2,201 followers and climbing.</p><p>On YouTube, the video has over 102,000 views in just four hours. He taps the video description.</p><p>Following a synopsis of the game and links to the previous video in the series, Mickey has thanked SneakAttack for the advanced copy and linked to their social media accounts. Beneath that, he’s written:</p><p>
  <i>and thanks to ian, ginger jumpscare extraordinaire, for joining me for this. check him out on instagram at iang_insta. don’t forget to call him a pussy in the comments.</i>
</p><p>The top comment, which Mickey has pinned and liked, is simply:</p><p>
  <span class="font-small"><b>Yara B:</b> 🐱</span>
</p><p>Ian likes it too, and what the hell, responds with </p><p>
  <span class="font-small"><b>Yara B:</b> 🐱<br/>
  <b>Ian G:</b> Thanks Mick. Really appreciate this encouragement.</span>
</p><p>When he arrives home, he brushes his teeth, pulls on his pajamas, and stretches out in bed. Carl’s home. He snores from the top bunk. Liam’s breaths beat out from the bed shoved against the other wall.</p><p>He pulls up his texts with Mickey.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (1:19 AM):</b> Are the reviews in? How do I fare? 😎</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Rather than sending a written response, Mickey sends him a screenshot of his Twitter mentions.</p><p>
  <span class="font-small"><b>tara:</b> @mickmilk_nh ian</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small"><b>Milk Maid:</b> @mickmilk_nh ian</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small"><b>GottMick:</b> @mickmilk_nh asdl;fk that game is fucked</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small"><b>logan ✨:</b> @mickmilk_nh ian</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small"><b>nightmare tia:</b> @mickmilk_nh ian 😩</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small"><b>eew:</b> @nightmaredaddy420 lol @mickmilk_nh hates us</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small"><b>lil mickie:</b> @mickmilk_nh WHERE IS HE (ian)</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small"><b>Milkmandead:</b> Loved the NH episode tonight @mickmilk_nh! 🔥 Ian seems like a nice guy. I enjoyed watching you two play! Take care. 😘</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="font-small"><b>certified ian simp:</b> hey @mickmilk_nh is ian single 👉👈 asking for a friend</span>
</p><p>He’s genuinely afraid to check Twitter on his own right now, so he refrains, waiting until it cools down a little. There’s just so much talk of himself he can take after midnight.</p><p>He smiles, though, at the tweets in Mickey’s screenshot.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (1:22 AM):</b> ⭐️⭐️⭐️ And the Rising Star Award goes to...</p><p><b>Mickey (1:22 AM):</b> i should take a screenshot of that text and post it on twitter for them to see</p><p><b>Ian (1:23 AM):</b> As if they wouldn’t love it?? Please.</p><p><b>Mickey (1:23 AM):</b> jfc you’re embarrassing </p><p><b>Ian (1:23 AM):</b> 😎</p><p>------------------------<br/>
---</p><p>In a word, Mickey’s Let’s Play of <i>Dust to Dust</i> is a hit. Over the week, the first half of the series alone garners a collective 5 million views and counting. He knows from looking over the view counts on Mickey’s other videos that the first video in each of his game series gets on average 2.5 million views, with the subsequent videos receiving less and less, the last video usually the least popular of all though still usually coming in at 400-500 thousand. </p><p><i>Dust to Dust</i> is on track to follow that same pattern, and Ian can’t help but feel a massive sense of relief that he hadn’t fucked anything up for Mickey by appearing in his videos.</p><p>In fact, the reception of him is overwhelmingly positive. By the time the first six videos in the series have been posted to <i>Nightmare Hour</i>, Ian has 4,972 Instagram followers, and most of his posts are garnering between 800 and 1,200 likes. There’s even a MICK MILK fan who created an Instagram dedicated to him called <b>dailyiang</b>, which posts an edited version of one of his old Instagram posts or a screenshot from one of his videos with Mickey every day. It only has 132 followers, but the fact that it exists in the first place makes Ian feel like he’s in the Twilight Zone.</p><p>He still follows it, even though it’s weird as shit. Its very existence makes him laugh, and plus, he figures he should do at least a <i>little</i> something to engage with Mickey’s fans. He doesn’t reply to their comments or like any of the posts they tag him in, so maybe it’s the least he can do.</p><p>On Monday, exactly one week after he’d returned from LA, Mickey texts him a screenshot of Ian’s follow list, that particular account circled in blue screenshot highlighter.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Mickey (4:12 PM):</b> why</p><p><b>Ian (4:12 PM):</b> Hmmm, why not?? 😎</p><p><b>Mickey (4:12 PM):</b> next time i see you i’m confiscating your phone</p><p><b>Mickey (4:13 PM):</b> told you not to follow anybody</p><p><b>Ian (4:13 PM):</b> Oh lighten up, it’s just some kid editing my insta pics, it’s not a big deal</p><p><b>Mickey (4:13 PM):</b> check their most recent post</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Ian does and can’t help but snort at the fact that they’ve posted a screenshot of Ian’s follow notification along with the 😱 emoji.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (4:15 PM):</b> Gotta keep tabs on my public perception</p><p><b>Mickey (4:15 PM):</b> whatever</p><p>------------------------</p><p>He outstretches his legs and then grabs the pack of cigarettes from beside him. He’s on the porch steps--has been for the past twenty minutes--enjoying the sunshine and leisurely smoking and playing on his phone.</p><p>He taps out a cigarette, lights up, and takes a slow drag, grounding himself before he takes a chance.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (4:18 PM):</b> Hey</p><p><b>Mickey (4:18 PM):</b> hi?</p><p><b>Ian (4:18 PM):</b> Can you facetime?</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Ian’s expecting a long discussion. He’s expecting to have to convince Mickey to stoop to FaceTime him. He’s half-expecting Mickey to claim he’s busy, and sure, maybe he is. Maybe he’s doing important California things while Ian lounges on the porch steps in the Southside sun on his day off.</p><p>Instead, Ian’s phone rings, his screen reading, 🤘 <b>Mickey</b> 🤘 <i>would like to FaceTime…</i></p><p>Holy fuck.</p><p>Ian is so surprised that he lets the phone ring five times before he answers.</p><p>“Took you long enough,” Mickey complains immediately, his face coming into view in a way that sends Ian’s belly into a swarm of butterflies.</p><p>He’s out on his balcony; Ian can tell by the particular shade of stucco behind his head. Ian even knows exactly where he’s sitting--can picture it. He’s on the balcony outside the kitchen in one of the chairs around the table.</p><p>The sun shines brightly on his face, making his eyes sky blue and ridiculously beautiful. Ian swallows heavily and just looks at him. He has the tiniest bit of stubble going on his upper lip like he’d shaved his jaw but left that bit stubbly for the look. There’s a superficial, half-inch scratch to the side of his eye. Cat scratch? Charlotte? The hairs of his left brow are mussed like he’s been rubbing it.</p><p>Mickey snaps his fingers in a <i>wake up</i>! gesture. “What’s up?”</p><p>“Uh, hey.” Ian clears his throat awkwardly and takes a puff off his cigarette. Blows out the smoke, trying to chill out. “How’s it goin’?”</p><p>“Annoyed at your ass.”</p><p>Ian smiles. “Yeah, okay. Whatever. I can’t unfollow now. Don’t wanna be an asshole.”</p><p>“Next thing I know, you’re gonna be on Twitter with your little stan following.”</p><p>“If you ever hear me talkin’ about going public on Twitter, shoot me in the face.”</p><p>Mickey smiles, then sucks his teeth, eyes bright and sweet. “They like you,” he says after a long, quiet moment. </p><p>Ian sighs heavily, happiness filling his heart. “Seems so.”</p><p>The other man looks thoughtful but doesn’t say anything, just watches Ian’s face with that shine in his eyes.</p><p>“Is this a hint that you think I need to become a YouTuber?” Ian jokes.</p><p>“Jesus Christ. Absolutely not.”</p><p>“I still haven’t done that Instagram Live Q&amp;A.”</p><p>“The fuck they gonna ask you?”</p><p>Ian takes a last puff off his cigarette and then grins, smoke seeping out the cracks in his teeth. “‘How big is MICK MILK’s dick?’”</p><p>“<i>Chh</i>. The answer is ‘too.’”</p><p>Ian laughs outright at that, crushing out the cigarette on the porch step and then flicking the butt into the yard. “Keep tellin’ yourself that. One day it might be true.”</p><p>Mickey bites his lip for a moment as if considering making a comment. His eyes flit from side to side, but eventually, he appears to have settled on going for it. “Haven’t heard any complaints.”</p><p>“Mm. Yeah, well. You’re not gonna get any.”</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>“Yup. As long as you don’t got any complaints about mine.”</p><p>Mickey looks away, and Ian knows he isn’t imagining the flush creeping its way up his neck. He’s wearing a deep gray <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/95bc20c109a3db58afb6a64f9b84690c/38eb67864336c488-2d/s500x750/ccc8663f743426b0771f4a7bb49e8f1bf721f12d.png">Metallica muscle shirt</a>, and the redness is splotching up around the collar.</p><p>“No complaints,” he finally murmurs, sending Ian into a grin so wide it makes his jaw hurt.</p><p>“Hey.”</p><p>Mickey sighs. “What?”</p><p>Ian gnaws on his bottom lip, teeth pressing into the skin sharply before releasing.</p><p>“I had a good time in LA.”</p><p>Mickey <i>pshh</i>s it off but Ian can tell it means something to him. Makes him happy. The flush continues up his cheeks, and Ian vows to make Mickey blush like that every time he sees him. He wants him to always be blushing at things Ian says to him.</p><p>“Yeah, whatever. You’ve said it like thirty times.”</p><p>“Not recently.”</p><p>“<i>Chh</i>.”</p><p>“Kinda miss it, y’know.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“Mmm.” Ian taps his chin in a show of thought. “The weather. The atmosphere.”</p><p>Mickey nods. Swipes his nose with his thumb.</p><p>“The people. Y’know.” Ian looks away, heart in his throat even though he’s playing it off as nonchalant. </p><p>When he flits his eyes back to Mickey, he finds him eyeing him curiously.</p><p>Ian grins, mischievous. “Mo’s pretty great. I miss her already.”</p><p>Mickey rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah.”</p><p>They let the moment settle. It’s no secret to Mickey, Ian knows, that Ian’s joking around here, bringing up Mo only in a deliberate flirtation. Whatever. He lets him know it. He thinks about kissing Mickey’s beautiful lips and considers the fact that Mo said <i>let him do it first</i>, implying she thought he’d do it eventually.</p><p>He breathes heavily out his mouth.</p><p>“Anyway,” he says, switching the tone of the conversation. “Maybe once I rocket to stardom I’ll buy a house in Los Feliz and we’ll be neighbors.”</p><p>Mickey snorts. “How you rocketing to stardom, A-list?”</p><p>“Hey, hey, hey. Couple more Let’s Plays with you and I might as well apply for a bluecheck.” </p><p>“Oh my God.”</p><p>Ian grins, so happy he feels like he’s floating.</p><p>They talk for several more minutes, then end the call. Mickey says he has to go <i>edit some shit</i> and Ian says he should probably go inside before he gets sunburned, leading Mickey to laugh at him in a way that Ian can’t help but be playfully offended by.</p><p>Once they say goodbye, Ian sits on the porch steps for the longest time, pressing the end of his phone to his lips. </p><p>He just FaceTimed with Mickey. God.</p><p>He’s definitely over the starstruck shit. Doesn’t even think about it 90% of the time, Mickey as familiar and quote-unquote “normal” to him now as Mandy. But he can’t help but be affected by the understanding of just how much things have changed.</p><p>A couple months ago, he was getting jelly-legs at the thought of seeing him. Talking to him. Now they’ve just FaceTimed. In fact, <i>Mickey</i> was the one to start up the call itself. Ian’s belly warms at the thought.</p><p>---</p><p>By Friday, Ian’s decided that he’s happier than he’s been in years. </p><p>Nothing about his life has changed except the entrance of Mickey. He still doesn’t love his work and lifepath situation. Feels like he’s at a deadend still, banging up against a barrier every time he tries to push past. It’s just nice to know, though, when he’s exhausted or discouraged or worried that nothing’s ever going to look up for him in a real way, that Mickey Milkovich likes him enough to allow him a place in his life.</p><p>It’s dumb to think of that way, but it’s true. Ian has a place in Mickey’s life. His heart could give out from the excitement it brings him. From the <i>hope</i>--the hope that one day they might be something more.</p><p>It embarrasses him. <i>More</i>. He’s been convinced for the longest time that Mickey merely tolerates him, but something about that Instagram post, the fucking sun emoji and the fact that he included Ian when he absolutely didn’t have to, gives him at least a modicum of optimism.</p><p>That optimism just grows and grows by evening. At just after four, Mickey announces that he’s going to do an Instagram Live to answer some questions about <i>Dust to Dust</i>. Ten episodes have been posted so far--three left to go--and Ian knows that this is Mickey’s attempt to promote the hell out of them prior to the weekend when it’s prime binge-watching time.</p><p>The Live starts at 4:30, and Ian joins soon after, giving it a few minutes so he doesn’t look desperate.</p><p>The chat is already flooded with fans and a seemingly endless stream of hearts. Mickey’s sitting on his living room couch, the Keith Haring prints behind him. He’s wearing <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/e04583158c4213ca90ce66ee46d4a84d/07f0c33b3de0700f-79/s500x750/cb55fc82827a03aa1c6b94ddf7a31713ad48544e.png">a pink, split-dye T-shirt</a>, and when he moves, Ian can see just the top of <i>Def Leppard</i> peeking up into frame.</p><p>Mickey’s already talking about something--likely answering a question about the game--and Ian just settles in to watch him. He looks like he absolutely despises doing this, and Ian wonders if he’s being paid or whether it’s part of some contract he’s signed with SneakAttack. </p><p>“Lactose Lover is asking about my thoughts on the quality of the horror.” Mickey presses his lips together, taking a moment to think before continuing with, “It’s <i>good</i>. Mostly. I still don’t know what the fuck they were doing with the titty ghosts. Like that shit was dumb. But everything else is solid. Chapters One and Three are the stand-outs, I think. Four’s pretty decent, too. It’s got a twist.” He <i>hmm</i>s. “Don’t know if that answers your question.”</p><p>His eyes watch his screen for a while until he suddenly makes a face of distaste. “Is your Instagram username pronounced ‘Milk Me Mick’? <i>Fuck</i>.”</p><p>Ian laughs loudly.</p><p>“You had a good question. Don’t know if I wanna answer it.” He bites the inside of his cheek, and Ian knows he’s fucking with the person because he then shrugs and says, “<i>Milk Me Mick</i> wants to know how long it takes me to edit a video. Uhhh, kinda depends on how much I need to cut. Had a guest with me on this one, so I was swearing more than I usually do, I guess.”</p><p>A user named <b>heartinoverdrive</b> immediately asks, <i>you def don’t cut out swearing??</i></p><p>and Mickey, apparently reading it, clarifies, “I mean, there’s just so many times you can threaten to cut off a ghost’s dick and shove it down his throat before it gets a little excessive.” He smirks, and it’s precious enough that it makes Ian’s cheeks flame up.</p><p>Well, the smirk <i>and</i> the fact that Ian knows the things Mickey <i>really</i> cut. Him moaning. Mickey alluding to their sex life.</p><p>He bites his lip. Thinks. There are currently 9,425 viewers, so even if Ian sends through a message, it isn’t as if Mickey will definitely see it. The comments at the bottom are moving so quickly that Ian can barely keep up himself.</p><p>Whatever. He puts his thumbs to the keyboard and types.</p><p><b>iang_insta:</b> Some of your jokes were pretty bad too 🙄</p><p>He isn’t expecting a reaction at all, but immediately after he sends the message, the comments are flooded.</p><p><b>oatmickmilk:</b> ian’s here!!!</p><p><b>ibiatc_mick:</b> I see Ian 😊</p><p><b>glassofmick:</b> HE’S HERE</p><p><b>prideandsensibility:</b> Ian! 👋👋</p><p><b>the_nightmareking:</b> hi ian omg</p><p><b>klim-kcim:</b> 😩 iiiiiian 😩</p><p>Ian doesn’t actually know if Mickey sees his message or if he’s simply reacting to the rest of the fans, but his cheeks suddenly pull back in a smile that looks like it would be wider if he weren’t holding it in, and he rolls his eyes.</p><p>“Ian, get the fuck off my Instagram,” he demands, looking away and then wiping his hand over his mouth and holding it there for several seconds. His eyes shine as he watches the screen. </p><p><i>Jesus Christ</i>, he’s covering up a smile. Ian wants to die.</p><p><b>mickmilksbestie:</b> 😭😭😭</p><p><b>nightmaredebs:</b> stop i’m gonna cry</p><p><b>bovinecrime:</b> He’s smiling, I’m losing it, losing it omf</p><p><b>micklovin69:</b> mickey !!! ian !!!</p><p><b>streamingmilk:</b> what if i was suicidal</p><p><b>lillrothke.248:</b> Mickey you’re so cute 😍😍</p><p><b>bigmickenergy666:</b> where is he 😭</p><p>Ian chuckles as he sends through another message.</p><p><b>iang_insta:</b> Uhhh no???</p><p>He watches Mickey read his screen, and he can tell that he sees it because he rolls his eyes dramatically and murmurs, “Fuck you” before appearing to type, the video freezing while he does it.</p><p>And twenty seconds later, Ian is kicked out of the Live.</p><p>He scratches his brow and tries to tap on Mickey’s user icon, but there is no indication that he’s live. He drags down on Mickey’s page, refreshing it, and suddenly all the posts disappear, his account suddenly reading <i>No Posts Yet</i>.</p><p>No fucking way.</p><p>Ian pulls up his texts.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (4:52 PM):</b> Did you just block me?!?!?!?!</p><p><b>Mickey (4:54 PM):</b> yup</p><p><b>Ian (4:54 PM):</b> You dick!</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Mickey doesn’t reply until Ian is pulling on his work T-shirt fifteen minutes later. </p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Mickey (5:12 PM):</b> told ya i would</p><p><b>Ian (5:12 PM):</b> Unblock</p><p><b>Mickey (5:12 PM):</b> nope</p><p><b>Ian (5:13 PM):</b> You suck</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Mickey doesn’t respond to that, and Ian, feeling like he’s losing his mind, FaceTimes him.</p><p>He answers almost immediately and is lying down on his sofa, his head pillowed on the plushy armrest and his phone held up above his face.</p><p>“What?” he asks innocently, and Ian scowls at him.</p><p>“Unblock me.”</p><p>Mickey laughs, and it’s just about the sweetest thing Ian’s ever seen, his cheeks going pink and his eyes squinting and wrinkling at the corners. </p><p>“No.”</p><p>“I’m never gonna have sex with you again if you don’t.”</p><p>Mickey shrugs, face affecting an air of apathy. “So? I can get dick anywhere.”</p><p>“Sure, but you can’t get <i>my</i> dick just anywhere.”</p><p>“Think you’re special, huh?”</p><p>Ian shrugs. Stands his ground. “Yeah.”</p><p>“<i>Chh</i>.”</p><p>They’re quiet for a long moment. Mickey texts someone or does something else on his phone, the image freezing for twenty seconds. Curious, Ian checks to see if he’s still blocked, wondering if Mickey might’ve been busy unblocking him, but nope. Still blocked.</p><p>He needs to leave for work in about fifteen minutes, and he needs to finish getting ready, get some food, take his meds.</p><p>“Hey,” he says, the moment suddenly coming across as awkward. He scratches his eyebrow. Sniffs. “I just wanted to bug you about blocking me. Gotta go to work in a few, so.”</p><p>Mickey nods, slow, then at a normal speed. “‘kay.”</p><p>“I need to, uh.” Ian swallows. He knows Mickey knows now. They can talk about it. But it still feels weird to say out loud.</p><p>“I need to go take my meds and stuff before I go. Need to eat something so I don’t get sick.”</p><p>“Cool. Got it.”</p><p>“Yeah.” Ian nods back. The awkwardness shines, and it’s suddenly enough that the two of them are willing to openly acknowledge it, breaking into twin laughs.</p><p>“Unblock me, bitch,” Ian demands, pointing his finger at the camera.</p><p>“Why should I?”</p><p>“Think I’ve already given you a reason. All nine inches.”</p><p>“<i>Nine inches</i>. Sure, if you’re measuring generously.”</p><p>Ian flips him off. “Unblock me.”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Fine.”</p><p>Mickey raises a brow. “<i>Fine</i>, huh?”</p><p>“Yeah. If you got me blocked, you can’t see what I post, either. Maybe I’ll post all kinds of shit about you.”</p><p>“Yeah, okay.”</p><p>“Don’t believe me?”</p><p>Mickey rolls his eyes. “Go take your meds.”</p><p>Ian grins at the casualness with which Mickey said that--like it’s nothing. Like it’s completely normal and like Ian’s not crazy and like he’s nothing to be ashamed of. <i>Go take your meds.</i></p><p>“Go take yours,” he counters, heart pounding hard, hard, like it’s going to beat out of his chest.</p><p>Mickey gives him a funny look for a moment, like he’s forgotten their conversation in the kitchen. After, his face returns to normal and he shrugs. “I take ‘em before bed. They make me tired, so.”</p><p>He’s nervous. He needn’t be. Ian wants to smooth back his hair. Kiss his forehead.</p><p>“Yeah,” he says. “Mine did, too, really bad for a while. Now they mostly just make me shaky or give me diarrhea if I don’t take them with food.”</p><p>“Cool.”</p><p>“Cool.”</p><p>They smile at each other. Smile at the awkwardness.</p><p>“Okay, gonna go,” Ian says, thumbing in the opposite direction. “Gotta go get all spiffed up for work.”</p><p>“‘kay. Go put on your leprechaun costume.”</p><p>“Pots of gold and rainbows. Top of the morning. Lucky charms.”</p><p>Mickey smiles, showing his teeth. Ian’s heart feels full to bursting.</p><p>---</p><p>Work’s hectic that night. There’s a birthday party--a man named Holden’s twenty-ninth--and Ian plays waiter until nine and then is able to get behind the bar with Zara, who’s got a batch of green beer going because they’d over-ordered for St. Patrick’s Day and are trying to get rid of it all by selling it half-price. </p><p>The pub’s on its fourth play of the night of Dropkick Murpheys’ “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NsxcZol_FEE">I’m Shipping Up To Boston</a>,” and Ian is half-heartedly singing it as he fills a couple pint glasses at the tap. </p><p>
  <i>I’m shipping out to Boston, whoa-oh-oh.</i>
</p><p>Shit’s calmed down a bit as the hour creeps closer to midnight. Holden’s already hammered and fucking around over at the pool tables with a couple friends, leaving Ian and Zara with nothing but a row of hearty drinkers at the bar who are keeping mostly to themselves. They order baskets of fries like it’s going out of style, and the two of them take turns going back to the kitchen to grab them.</p><p>“So Ian,” Zara says in a break in the madness, setting down her most recent basket in front of a pair of hipster gays in thick-rimmed glasses. “When were you gonna tell us you’re famous?”</p><p>Ian’s heart stops. “Uhh, what?”</p><p>“C’mon. You do video game stuff, right? Keller just told me about it back in the kitchen.” Zara smiles and nudges him with her elbow. “Wanted me to ask you about it and report back.”</p><p>He considers playing dumb, but well, that would be fucking stupid. His face is on the Internet, plain to see.</p><p>“Uhh, yeah, sorta,” he relents, reaching under the bar for a bottle of water and cracking the seal. He takes a heavy gulp before recapping it. Idle, nervous. “I mean, I’m not famous. My friend is.”</p><p>“Oh yeah?”</p><p>“Yeah. He does YouTube for a living. I just did a series with him on his channel. No big deal.”</p><p>Zara gives him a look as if saying with her eyes, <i>Ian, it’s a very, very big deal. Are you fucking crazy?</i> </p><p>“He a friend or a…” She brings up her hands to mimic air-quotes. “‘<i>Friend</i>.’”</p><p>“Friend. Regular one.” Ian reopens the bottle of water and starts to sip in an effort to keep his mouth busy so he doesn’t say something stupid.</p><p>“Uh <i>huuuh</i>.” Zara gives him a look like she doesn’t believe him but then shrugs like she’s going to pretend to. “Cool.”</p><p>She clearly doesn’t care about the video game stuff, professing to know literally nothing about gaming YouTube or YouTubers in general. The two of them talk as they wipe down the areas of the bar that are now beginning to empty. Fill the last few pints and set them in front of customers. Holden leaves at just past eleven after drunkenly requesting “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DJVtFpZl7-Y">Beer, Beer, Beer</a>” for the fifth time, which gets the chorus stuck in Ian’s head even after he’s gone.</p><p>“Listen,” Zara proposes as they’re beginning to close up, the pub mostly empty save for a few stragglers. “D’ya think your friend might be interested in doing something for the youth center kids?”</p><p>Ian turns to her. “Like what?”</p><p>“See, we’ve been trying to bring in more local queer youth. We have a small but steady group that comes in for our socials, and obviously our crisis desk is always busy. But we’d love to expand, maybe have more community-building offerings and events. I was just wondering if maybe your friend would wanna do some kind of…<i>gamer thing</i> there one day.” She shrugs, idly polishing a glass. “We could sell tickets. Raise some money for the center. Don’t really know how much we can pay him, but could you maybe see if he’d be interested?”</p><p>Ian thinks about Mickey agreeing to do the event for inner-city teens for free. He smiles. “Uhh, yeah, sure. I’ll ask.”</p><p>“Great!” Zara beams at him, reaching over to give him a friendly pat on the shoulder. “You’re the best.”</p><p>---</p><p>He texts Mickey from the L train on his way home.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (12:42 AM):</b> Would you by any chance be interested in doing a gig at my friend’s center?</p><p><b>Ian (12:43 AM):</b> It’s for LGBTQ youth</p><p><b>Ian (12:43 AM):</b> Also now I’m famous at work ✋😎</p><p><b>Mickey (12:44 AM):</b> maybe, tell them to contact mo at fahrenheit la. i don’t deal with business shit </p><p><b>Ian (12:44 AM):</b> Cool, thanks </p><p><b>Mickey (12:45 AM):</b> no prob</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Ian locks his phone and sets it on his knee. He considers texting Zara but figures it can wait until he sees her again on Tuesday. No rush. He yawns. Stretches.</p><p>His phone vibrates.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Mickey (12:49 AM):</b> btw what’s his name? i’ll tell mo to look for an email from him</p><p><b>Ian (12:49 AM):</b> It’s a girl, Zara Hamilton</p><p><b>Mickey (12:50 AM):</b> cool</p><p>------------------------</p><p>If Ian didn’t know better… He bites his lip, wondering.</p><p>No way. </p><p><i>Maybe</i>, though. He can’t help but grin when he thinks of it, and that grin only grows when Mickey sends him another message.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Mickey (12:52 AM):</b> don’t think i can get back to chicago until april. got a meeting with sneakattack for some really fuckin cool shit on the 9th tho. talking to mo about maybe flying in on the 8th and leaving the 10th if you’re interested.</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Frankly, Ian’s surprised SneakAttack has anything to do with him after he was so honest about certain parts of <i>Dust to Dust</i>. MICK MILK <i>is</i> probably the reason behind most of their sales, though, regardless of his very public and sometimes very <i>harsh</i> critiques.</p><p>Ian smiles at how excited Mickey seems and wonders about the nature of the <i>really fuckin cool shit</i>. And well, his heart pounds at the fact that Mickey’s now so casually talking about Ian staying with him. </p><p>He checks his calendar before texting Mickey. Thursday through Saturday. He’ll try to switch to an earlier shift on Thursday and might take off completely on Friday. Friday nights always get the best tips, so it should be easy to get someone to cover for him.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (12:53 AM):</b> Sounds good</p><p><b>Mickey (12:53 AM):</b> cool</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Ian rubs at his eyebrow with the side of his index finger. </p><p>Hm.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (12:54 AM):</b> What’s the SneakAttack thing?</p><p>------------------------</p><p>After Mickey’s track record with secrets, Ian’s pretty certain he isn’t going to get an answer. <i>none of your business</i>, he sees Mickey saying. <i>can’t tell you.</i> Maybe, <i>does it matter?</i></p><p>He’s surprised with what he receives.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Mickey (12:54 AM):</b> tell ya later maybe</p><p>------------------------</p><p><i>Really</i>? </p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Mickey (12:55 AM):</b> unblocked you btw</p><p><b>Mickey (12:55 AM):</b> dick</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Ian blows out a breath and leans back in his seat, biting back a dopey smile as he waits on his stop.</p><p>---<br/>
---</p><p>By the following Monday, all remaining <i>Nightmare Hour</i> episodes of <i>Dust to Dust</i> have been posted, and Ian is up to a whopping 6,374 Instagram followers, the count growing by a couple hundred per day.</p><p>By Wednesday, he has 6,914. </p><p>By Saturday, he has 8,328.</p><p>He works at Patsy’s for most of the day Saturday, and during his break, he finds himself lounging in one of the empty booths at the back where he and Mandy often hang out, eating a slice of cherry pie and checking Twitter.</p><p>He tries not to look at it too often for fear of it stressing him out, but sometimes he can’t help himself. Over the past couple weeks, there have been surges of posts about him followed by spells of more Mickey-focused chatter.</p><p>In general, they like him. A few tweeters think he’s <i>annoying</i>, and more than a few ask things like <i>who tf is he</i> and complain about only wanting to hear Mickey talk, <i>not some unknown guy nobody gives a fuck about.</i> But for the most part, Ian’s pleasantly surprised with his reception.</p><p>Fandom-wide, the speculation about Ian and Mickey’s relationship seems to have died down with the drop of the series, most seeming to subscribe to the belief that they were just hanging out in LA because they were recording together. People like 👾 madz 👾, however, use every glance as further proof that they’re dating.</p><p>
  <span class="font-small"><b>👾 madz 👾:</b> oh ok, ian and mickey are just two bffs staying together in la, watching the sunset at the pier, flirting on ig live. just two bros. two guys being dudes.</span>
</p><p>She follows this up with a <i>Sure, Jan</i> gif, and the post has nine retweets and 37 likes.</p><p>For her part, Nightmare Maggie has spent the week scrambling because she’s been called out. Some user named <b>Mrs. Milk</b> made a post attacking her for being annoying with her know-it-all attitude, and Maggie turned around and posted a three-tweet rant about how she’s going to stop sharing if people don’t appreciate it and then proceeded to set her account to private.</p><p>
  </p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p><b>Nightmare Maggie:</b> if you have a problem with me, dm me. there’s no need to air it out on main. all the info i share is completely voluntary and i don’t have to do any of it. if people keep giving me shit for sharing completely innocent information then i just won’t share anything at all.</p>
</blockquote><blockquote>
  <p><b>Nightmare Maggie:</b> no, i don’t give my sources. it’s none of your business how i get my info. and stfu about me “acting like i know more than i do.” i’m not acting like anything. i never claimed to know mickey or mandy or ian. i’m not in regular contact with any of them.</p>
</blockquote><blockquote>
  <p><b>Nightmare Maggie:</b> my only goal is to help confirm things when people need them confirmed. i try to be a voice of reason when i can. but too many people are trying my patience and i’m sick of it. kindly fuck off before i do. 🖕</p>
</blockquote><p>The thread is exhausting to read. Even more exhausting is her most recent tweet, posted four days after her rant, in which she apparently backs down from every threat to withhold information she made.</p><p>
  </p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p><b>Nightmare Maggie:</b> fyi: ian and mickey don’t follow each other on instagram because they have private accounts completely separate from their public ones. don’t ask me what they are, just shut the fuck up about them “being a pr friendship” because it isn’t true.</p>
</blockquote><p>Now <i>that’s</i> literal bullshit. It’s so fucking stupid that Ian nearly laughed out loud when he saw it on his timeline and considered screenshotting it and sending it to Mickey. He ultimately decided against it, but he would’ve if he hadn’t thought Mickey would just playfully yell at him for still being on stan Twitter.</p><p>Today, the waters are relatively calm. He searches his name because he’s a masochist and finds the most recent thread to be the photo from his newest Instagram post along with 🔥🔥🔥🔥. The tweet has 67 likes and 13 retweets, most with some sort of comment on his appearance.</p><p>And well, fine. He’d liked the picture, too. Mandy had taken it of him smoking a cigarette while leaning against the outside of Patsy’s.</p><p>This shit’s really fucking weird, but in general, it’s doing wonders for his self-esteem even if he does get his fair share of negative comments. </p><p>Before he stands from the booth to resume his shift, Ian sends a quick text to Mickey.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (3:12 PM):</b> Be thinking of ideas for my 10k follower Instagram Live. 😎</p><p>------------------------</p><p>His phone doesn’t vibrate for another twenty minutes, but when it does, the accompanying message is enough to send him into a smile that lasts the remainder of his shift.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Mickey (3:35 PM):</b> delete your account</p><p>------------------------<br/>
---</p><p>Overall, things are going exceedingly well for him. March is without a doubt the best month he’s experienced in the past two years, and April’s prospects look good, Mickey visiting during the second week and letting him in on the <i>really fuckin cool shit</i> he has going on in his professional life. Maybe Mickey’ll work something out with Zara for the youth center. She’d emailed Mo on Thursday and is waiting on a response. </p><p>Mickey back in Chicago again. Ian helping work behind the scenes with him and Zara. Great things on the horizon.</p><p>When Ian gets home from work that night, he pulls on some sweats and a T-shirt, makes a boxed pasta bake, and then settles on the couch with all his younger siblings--White Boy Carl included--to watch <i>Deadliest Catch</i> with a plate of food. He’s relaxed, and it’s nice to be able to hang out with almost everyone together, the Gallagher house of late being mostly just Liam and occasionally Ian, Fiona always at Patsy’s, Debbie hanging out with some guy she met at school who’s teaching her to fight, and Carl being Carl in the most Carl way he can.</p><p>He props up his feet on the coffee table beside Liam’s and settles in for a nice night in.</p><p>---</p><p>Ian’s phone rings at just before ten, and that’s unusual. The only person who ever regularly calls him is Fiona, and she’d just recently texted him that she was staying the night with some guy and wanted to see if he could help open Patsy’s the next morning.</p><p>He checks the caller ID. <b>Mandy M.</b> Weird. She’s never called him before, always texting instead.</p><p>Quickly, he answers, shifting on the sofa and moving away the bag of Cheetos he’d been sharing with Liam.</p><p>“Hello?”</p><p>There’s a huffy sound--soft, like a breath.</p><p>“Mandy?”</p><p>Another sound. The clearing of a throat. “Uh, hey! Ian.”</p><p>Her voice is odd, thick like she’s been crying, but her words carry a perkiness that can only be forced.</p><p>“Mandy. What’s going on?”</p><p>“Can you, um.” Her breath shakes out. “Can you meet me somewhere?”</p><p>---</p><p>It’s news to Ian that Mandy has a car. It’s an old Honda Civic with a huge dent in the back bumper and peeling paint on the hood that’s just visible in the overhead lamplight.</p><p>She’d asked him to meet her in the parking lot of Church’s Chicken not far from his house, and after making sure the kids were fine, he’d half-walked, half-jogged the ten-minute journey there.</p><p>The car is backed into a parking spot near the sidewalk, right under a streetlight, and Ian quickly moves around and taps on the window until she unlocks the door and lets him in.</p><p>It’s dim inside. Mandy’s gripping the steering wheel, and though Ian can’t see enough to tell, he knows that if the light were brighter he’d see that her knuckles are white.</p><p>“Are you okay?” he asks in a rush, turning to her.</p><p>She has her face tilted toward the driver’s side window, shoulder pressed against the door. She doesn’t answer--just makes a huffy noise like the ones Mickey makes when he doesn’t want to talk.</p><p>It’s so unlike her--so unlike the infectiously excitable girl he knows and loves--that his breath speeds, stomach clenching with nerves.</p><p>“Mandy, what?”</p><p>She sniffs, and it’s wet, and Ian reaches for her hand without thinking, tugging it off the steering wheel so he can hold it between his. Her fingers are cold but sweaty in-between, and she grips him tight for a long moment before leaning forward and pressing her forehead against her other hand, which still holds on to the wheel for dear life. </p><p>Maybe it’s something with Hunter. Maybe they broke up or called off their <i>non-relationship</i>. Maybe it’s something with school. Her teacher that thinks she’s stupid.</p><p>They sit there in silence for what must be nearly five minutes, holding hands. Breathing.</p><p>Finally, Mandy sniffs again and tugs her hand away, using it to wipe at her nose.</p><p>Ian takes a deep breath. “What’s going on?”</p><p>She shifts in her seat. Something’s off. Something’s <i>wrong</i>.</p><p>Ian reaches to the ceiling for the interior light and switches it on so he can look her in the eye. </p><p>In response, Mandy shrinks away, wincing, and his heart stops.</p><p>The left side of her face is relatively unscathed, but her right eye is purply-pink and growing puffy in a way that indicates it’ll be swollen shut by morning. There’s a bit of blackish dried blood in the corner of her mouth like she’d wiped it down and missed a spot. Her cheekbone is mottled, fuschia and lavender. </p><p>“Holy shit,” Ian breathes at the sight of her, reaching up to touch her face with gentle fingers. “What the fuck happened?”</p><p>He doesn’t know why, but his thoughts immediately turn to Hunter, and for a mad-hot minute, his vision whites out and is instead replaced with fantasies of pummeling the shit out of his face until he’s a bloody, broken mess.</p><p>Mandy shrugs. “D’you have a cigarette?”</p><p>“<i>Mandy</i>. Who the fuck did this?” Ian blows out a sharp breath at the hardness that appears in her eyes, a flash of something he doesn’t recognize.</p><p>He presses. “Who?”</p><p>“It’s not a big deal,” she asserts in a scratchy voice, outstretching her palm for a pack of cigarettes as if her face isn’t battered and as if she hadn’t just held Ian’s hand in the dark and cried against her steering wheel.</p><p>Ian watches her, heart breaking, before relenting and tugging a half-flattened pack of Newports from the pocket of his jacket. He takes one out, presses it between his lips to light it, then hands it to Mandy, who accepts it gratefully.</p><p>She smokes for a few minutes, the smoke circling their heads and clouding up the car. Nobody bothers to roll down a window.</p><p>“I was stupid,” she says finally, blowing two straight streams of smoke from her nose. “Called him a piece of shit.”</p><p>“Who?”</p><p>“I deserved it.”</p><p>“You didn’t <i>deserve</i> it.” A flash of anger burns up Ian’s belly. He wants to crack his knuckles, wants to use them to break the bone of nose. It’s been a while, but he remembers the feeling, the hardness giving way to sick, wet soft as the bridge fractures.</p><p>Mandy huffs a laugh. Rolls her eyes. She tries to smile, but something inside her mouth must hurt, for it’s lopsided and weak.</p><p>“Who the fuck did this to you? Was it Hunter?”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Mandy.”</p><p>“<i>No</i>, it wasn’t Hunter!”</p><p>“Then who?”</p><p>“Who the fuck d’you think?” She laughs outright, cigarette gripped between her fingers, and in that moment, she reminds Ian so much of Mickey that his heart nearly gives out. It’s almost <i>shocking</i> the similarity, and that new frame of reference makes something click in Ian’s mind because <i>of course</i>, of fucking course, <i>holy fucking shit</i>, Ian’s going to murder Terry Milkovich with his bare hands.</p><p>“Your dad.”</p><p>She laughs again, but it hurts this time, and she gives in to the feeling, making a groaning noise that’s partly of pain and partly of annoyance.</p><p>“I got in his way. I shouldn’t have.” Mandy takes a long, deep drag before reaching up to switch back off the overhead light. The cherry of the cigarette burns orange in the near-darkness.</p><p>Ian swallows. He turns fully in his seat and settles in to watch her.</p><p>“What happened?”</p><p>“He was bugging me while I was trying to study. Wanted me to make him food.” Mandy shrugs. “So I did.”</p><p>She takes a last, slow drag and holds it for a long moment, the cigarette small between her fingers. She blows it out. Studies the cigarette as it burns closer and closer to the filter. </p><p>“His eggs were runny,” she continues, “and he hates that. He complained, so I gave it back to him a little. Pissed off, y’know? Told him to make his own eggs even though I know he can’t.” </p><p>Mandy pauses and opens the door, dropping the cigarette butt onto the pavement. Closes the door. Locks it.</p><p>“Like I said, I deserved it.”</p><p>Ian reaches for her hand again, but she doesn’t reach back, instead bringing the hand once more to the steering wheel in a way that sends the message that she doesn’t want to be touched without being rudely obvious about it.</p><p>“He called me a bitch. Cunt. Whore. I was just sort of <i>done</i>, y’know? Called him a piece of shit. Got in his face. And, well…” She waves in the general direction of her eye, and Ian’s heart aches for her.</p><p>“I’ll kill him.”</p><p>“No, you won’t.”</p><p>He seethes, breath hissing out between his teeth as he clamps down on his jaw.</p><p>“I push him sometimes. I should know better. He gets like that. I’ve known it practically since I was born, so.”</p><p>“It’s <i>not</i> your fault, Mandy.”</p><p>“Whatever.” She shrugs, a mask falling over her face. “This happens like, twice a year. It’s not a big deal. I probably shouldn’t have even called, but I just wanted to talk, and--”</p><p>Ian huffs out a breath that stops her. She removes her hands from the steering wheel and turns her body toward him, one side of her face visibly misshapen with swelling, even in the near-darkness.</p><p>For a moment, she looks thoughtful, eyes gazing at Ian’s expression. She swallows heavily and asks, voice soft, “Do you think it’s wrong that I’m glad he’s dying?”</p><p>“<i>No</i>. He’s an abusive piece of shit.”</p><p>She rubs a hand over her face and makes a noise like she’s about to cry again. Ian wants to hold her, but he knows she doesn’t want that, so he hugs himself, instead, arms crossing over his chest.</p><p>“He made our lives a living hell,” Mandy murmurs after a long few minutes, turning back to the windshield. “Still does.” </p><p>She scoffs at herself, an unhappy smile on her face. “Mickey tells me to just let him die. He fucking…<i>begs</i> me to come live with him in LA. Or says he’ll get me an apartment. North Side. Wherever I want.”</p><p>“Why don’t you?”</p><p>She laughs wetly when she says, “I can’t do it. I hate him so much, Ian, but part of me’s just…” She sighs. Pauses. And without finishing her sentence, she changes the subject. </p><p>“Mickey’s different. After what Terry did to him, he can just <i>say</i> shit like that like it’s nothing.” Her voice drops to a low, almost mockingly dopey voice. “‘Just get the fuck out, Mandy. Let him fuckin’ drown in his piss for all I care.’” She shrugs. Presses her lips together.</p><p>“I dunno. I just can’t do that. I <i>want</i> to. I fucking <i>try</i> to. But all I can think when I stay at Hunter’s for too long sometimes is that maybe Dad’s in pain, or maybe I need to make him food or clean up his shit or…” She trails off, and there’s a lifetime of sadness in it.</p><p>Not for the first time, Ian notices that Mandy uses “Terry” and “Dad” interchangeably as if they’re two separate people. Maybe in her mind they are.</p><p>Ian fucking hates Frank. He tried not to at first. He used to seek his approval. Show off. A stupid ten-year-old who just wanted a dad. Eventually, he gave up. </p><p>Frank’s not his biological dad, but that doesn’t matter. He’s all he has; he’s the shitty cards he’s been dealt. He accepts him as the asshole that he is and rejects him because of it, usually not letting it get to him. Keeping him at a distance. Frank never liked him, so why should he like Frank?</p><p>In the car that night, the air still thick with smoke, he thinks about Frank dying. Would he care? Would he bother taking care of him? He can’t imagine it, really, and the thought of sincerely caring about someone who’s beaten the shit out of you for most of your life feels foreign on his tongue. But he understands the desire to be loved. He accepts Frank for what he is. He hates him for much of it. In theory, he’d still like a dad. Even now, a month shy of twenty and ten years past that stupid kid who once was, he sometimes craves good parents. <i>Normal</i> parents.</p><p>A part of him thinks he always will.</p><p>Mandy outstretches her hand, and Ian takes it. He wants to kiss it but doesn’t--just holds it tight, Mandy’s sharp nails digging into his skin.</p><p>“Come back with me,” he offers, running his thumb along the side of hers. “You can stay at my place. My brother’s at college and my dad’s not around right now, so there’s an extra bed.”</p><p>Mandy shakes her head. “I’m good.”</p><p>“You’re not going back there.”</p><p>“Not tonight.” She looks him in the eye. A promise. “It’s really fine. I’ll go to Hunter’s place. It’s where I usually go.”</p><p>That last sentence gets at him. He takes a deep, slow breath.</p><p>“Are you gonna be okay?”</p><p>“Yeah, silly.” Mandy smiles, and it’s bright on her face but dim in her eyes. </p><p>---</p><p>She drives Ian home, and he hugs her tight before he goes. He feels weird about letting her go off on her own, but he believes her when she says she’s going to Hunter’s. He believes her when she says it’s the place she <i>usually goes</i>. He doesn’t believe her when she says this only happens twice a year.</p><p>His stomach hurts when he climbs from the car.</p><p>“Hey,” Mandy says before he can turn away. She’s rolled down the passenger window, and Ian bends to lean just slightly through it.</p><p>“Don’t tell Mickey. Please.”</p><p>Ian huffs a breath, a lump forming in his throat.</p><p>“You <i>can’t</i> tell him, Ian. He’ll fucking kill him.” Mandy runs a hand over her face, wincing when she brushes against her bruised cheek. “He gets…<i>bad</i>, y’know. About him. Like. <i>Bad</i>. So.”</p><p>Her eyes are pleading. She’s Ian’s best friend.</p><p>He swallows heavily, the lump growing to the size of a golf ball.</p><p>“Okay,” he says. “I won’t.”</p><p>She holds out her pinkie. </p><p>“Pinkie swear.”</p><p>“Pinkie swear.”</p><p>They shake on it.</p><p>---</p><p>He checks in with her every day for a full week.</p><p>It starts with texts confirming she’s still staying with Hunter. She swears she is.</p><p>On Wednesday, they have breakfast together at Patsy’s, and she seems better. Her facial swelling is beginning to go down though the purple is livid--deep and dark and ineffectively covered with makeup. </p><p>They don’t talk about it, just have their coffee and pancakes and discuss her classes and Ian’s family and the fact that Ian’s breached 10,000 Instagram followers and is quickly approaching Mandy’s 11,500.</p><p>He hugs her before they part ways. Kisses her temple. She smells like girl and springtime air and he wants to choke to death every man who’s ever laid a hand on her.</p><p>By Friday, Ian’s fairly certain she’s back with Terry. He asks how she’s doing, and she says she’s fine.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (11:11 AM):</b> What are you doing for lunch? Wanna meet at the Mexican place near Hunter’s?</p><p><b>Mandy (11:13 AM):</b> raincheck? busy af today 💛</p><p>------------------------</p><p>She doesn’t volunteer any more information, but she sends him a selfie of her holding a copy of <i>The Bell Jar</i>, and Ian can see that she looks better. The swelling has almost entirely gone down, her eye regaining its normal shape, and the deep purply areas along the orbital bone are turning blue-green.</p><p>She’s beautiful, and that face with bruises makes Ian fantasize about a foot through her father’s skull.</p><p>He sees that the wall behind her is painted purple, and he knows she’s likely in her bedroom at home, but he doesn’t comment. Instead, he pulls a cigarette from the pack in his pocket and lights up.</p><p>---<br/>
---</p><p>The beginning of April passes in a much less spectacular fashion than the beginning of March. Ian goes to work, checks on Mandy, avoids social media, and thinks about Mickey.</p><p>He’s due to arrive on the eighth, and Ian’s feeling weird about the hotel thing but not knowing what to do about it.</p><p>When they were in LA, Mickey had opened up his home to him, and Ian thinks it’s only fair that he does the same. The circumstances aren’t exactly comparable, though, Ian’s home currently housing five and sometimes six or seven people and their downstairs toilet on the fritz.</p><p>Still, he offers, imagining him and Mickey commandeering Lip’s bedroom for the night and sending Frank to the boys’ room or the couch if he shows up wanting a bed. The thought makes him blush, though he knows it isn’t going to happen. No way is Mickey going to agree to sleep in a cramped Southside house when he could stay in comfort and luxury.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (3:19 PM):</b> just wanted you to know that you’re welcome to stay at my place if you want</p><p><b>Mickey (3:20 PM):</b> nah it’s cool, mo got reservations at the hotel</p><p>------------------------</p><p>He isn’t surprised, and he isn’t offended. Frankly, <i>he’d</i> much rather stay in the hotel.</p><p>He does hate the thought that they’re going back to their old routine, though. Sneaky sex in hotel rooms after a week of a real home and a real bed. It feels regressive, though he knows it shouldn’t. There’s nothing to read into here. The fact that they’re staying at the hotel isn’t a personal thing--some deliberate way of distancing them or rolling back what their relationship has become over the past month.</p><p>If he had his own place, maybe they’d stay there.</p><p>Ian can’t help but smile at the thought. Mickey in his bed. Mickey surrounded by his things. Mickey leaving a T-shirt in Ian’s laundry hamper, their clothes mixing in the wash.</p><p>Idly, he wonders if Mickey’s been wearing his sweats. Wonders if Mickey’s ever put on Ian’s sweats and Ian’s too-small T-shirt and slept like that, surrounded by him.</p><p>He wears Mickey’s beanie still, though less now that the weather’s turning more springlike. He isn’t a beanie-wearer usually--just when it’s cold. He doesn’t wear them as part of an outfit like Mickey. But he does take the beanie out of his drawer sometimes. He runs his finger over the embroidered 🤘 and thinks about Mickey choosing it. Packing it. Wearing it because he likes it. Giving it to Ian because he’d been without.</p><p>It makes his belly warm, and he thinks as long as he lives, if he and Mickey will ever have a future together, that he won’t forget that moment outside the hotel, Mickey’s fingers brushing against his ears as he’d tugged the hat onto his head.</p><p>---</p><p>Mickey texts him the hotel room number likely while he’s sitting at the American Airlines gate at LAX, waiting to board.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Mickey (2:03 PM):</b> plane lands at 7:12 so you can come at 9:30 if you want, i should be there by then</p><p>------------------------</p><p>he texts, and Ian feels sick with how much he’s missed him.</p><p>Something about their time together in LA made being so far away from him harder. It’s always been hard, that burgeoning affection Ian had for him making an appearance early on, missing him simply a natural part of that. But the difficulty of being apart this time feels more real, feels like the way a person misses someone they’re close to--a close friend, a close relative, a lover--and that feeling settles heavy in his gut and makes him want Mickey around him always. Every day.</p><p>Two-thousand miles is a long way.</p><p>---</p><p>When Ian arrives outside the hotel room at 9:45, he already hears Mickey’s <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8s1wp8JvX4I">music</a>, which is loud enough that he can almost hear individual lyrics. How the hell Mickey’s kept from getting a noise complaint filed is beyond him.</p><p>He has to knock three times before Mickey hears the door, the music suddenly cutting off followed by the fumbling of a lock. Ian can’t help but positively <i>beam</i> at him when he sees him, Mickey pulling open the door and standing there in his Nirvana hoodie and skinny sweats. </p><p>His earrings are out, and he’s barefoot, and Ian wants to wrap his arms around him and pull his face into the crook of his neck.</p><p>Instead, he lets his grin settle onto his face and murmurs, “Hi.”</p><p>And for the first time at the hotel, Mickey grins right back at him, teeth showing with it. “Hey.”</p><p>Ian’s belly is filled with light; it’s the only way to describe it. Mickey makes a happy, breathy noise and turns to lead him into the room.</p><p>He follows Mickey, drops his duffel on the floor near the TV stand, and takes a moment to peer around at the corner room, absorbing the dim, comforting lamp glow and the shine of lights out the window for the first time in over a month.</p><p>He does like this room in particular--even more than the loft, really. He’s missed it, even if he greatly prefers the comfort of a home, of a personal space that belongs to Mickey in which they can spend time together.</p><p>Mickey was clearly unpacking when Ian arrived, his bag unzipped and spilling several articles of clothing onto the bed. Now he awkwardly stands at the foot of it, fidgeting with the front pocket of his hoodie but smiling sweetly, close-mouthed this time.</p><p><i>Mickey’s happy to see him.</i> It’s all he can think as he watches him huff amusedly and flit his eyes away once he catches Ian looking.</p><p>Ian can’t help it. He moves over to him--gets nice and close, close enough that he can smell the soap on Mickey’s skin--and takes him by the shoulders, his fingers pressing into the softness layered over hard muscle.</p><p>He gets that far but doesn’t know what to do next. </p><p>He knows a hug would probably be the most natural thing--he’s not fucking <i>stupid</i>--but they’ve never really done it in a way that involves standing and holding, have never really done it mutually at all, and Ian doesn’t know if Mickey wants it yet or at all or ever will.</p><p>With his hands, he pushes Mickey gently back, then pulls him in, rocking him an inch or two either way. Mickey’s hands come to Ian’s sides and squeeze at him, and suddenly they’re two eleven-year-olds at their first school dance, not knowing how to slow dance but knowing that hands go vaguely on shoulders and on waists.</p><p>Mickey huffs at him again, exasperated but playfully so, his eyes alight. </p><p>Ian could go at this in many different ways--could say any number of things. He could go with soft. Sincere. Romantic.</p><p>Instead, he goes with silly, letting a smirk work its way onto his mouth.</p><p>“You sure you didn’t wanna stay at the luxurious Gallagher Estate?” he asks, the smirk transforming into a genuine grin as he gazes down at Mickey, who smiles back at him. “I mean. This room’s nice and all, but it’s lacking a certain <i>je ne sais quoi</i>, if I do say so myself.”</p><p>“Ain’t gonna fuck you with all seventy-five of your family members listening, A-list,” Mickey counters, slowly walking Ian toward the bed.</p><p>“Oh, but see, my spacious twin bed is the <i>perfect</i> place for us to fuck.”</p><p>“That so?”</p><p>Ian feels the back of his legs touch the bed, and he spins slowly, reversing their positions until he’s got Mickey an inch away from falling backward onto the mattress.</p><p>“Yeah,” he says. “I’ve never had sex in it before, so it’s about time I broke it in.”</p><p>Of his own volition, Mickey drops down on the bed, carelessly shoving away his open overnight bag and few articles of clothing and crawling backward toward the headboard. Ian follows him on.</p><p>“Bet you’ve jerked off in it a million times,” Mickey murmurs as Ian crowds him back against the pillows.</p><p>“A million and one.”</p><p>“<i>Chh</i>.”</p><p>Ian grins and stretches himself out atop Mickey.</p><p>They should probably fuck. It’s what they’ve always come here for. It’s the name of the game.</p><p>And they will. But for now, he just wants to push back Mickey’s hair, over and over again, hand sliding up his forehead and back across the top of his head.</p><p>They’re quiet for an endless moment, watching each other. Breathing in little puffs against one another’s face. Mickey’s hair is soft and fluffy, not an ounce of styling product used on its strands today.</p><p>Ian looks down at him. His eyes are blinking slowly like a cat being petted, and his mouth is open just a fraction, just enough to reveal the very tips of his front teeth.</p><p>He’s beautiful. <i>Fuck</i>, Ian’s missed him. As he trades hair-stroking for rubbing his thumb up and down the space between his eyes, over the soft little hairs, he realizes just how much.</p><p>He takes a deep breath. Blows it out, a bit of Mickey’s fluffy hair quaking with it.</p><p>He considers, weighing the pros and cons, and after realizing that the pros are numerous and the cons are minimal, Ian presses his lips to Mickey’s jaw and murmurs, “I missed you.”</p><p>Mickey makes a gaspy noise like he’s surprised, and something about it gets at Ian’s heart--the fact that Mickey could ever be surprised that someone’s missed him. </p><p>Ian doesn’t know if he’s expecting a response. It could probably go either way.</p><p>And well, Mickey doesn’t respond verbally in the end. He bites his lip, those teeth pressing to the flesh and turning it white like he’s thinking a complicated thought. </p><p>Ian wants to know what’s going on in his head. He’s desperate for it.</p><p>Finally, after studying Ian’s face like he’s trying to memorize it, Mickey reaches around and sticks his fingers down the back of his shirt-neck, grasping at it and dragging it over his head.</p><p>---</p><p>They get naked slower than Ian had anticipated they would before their first fuck of the night. Mickey pulls off Ian’s shirt completely on his own, and Ian gets rid of Mickey’s, taking the time to smooth his hands up his stomach and touch his lips to the dead center, running them in pressing little kisses up to his chest. They then kick off their shoes and remove their own pants and underwear, and Ian covers Mickey’s naked body with his own, not wanting even an inch of space separating them.</p><p>It’s moments like this that it’s hard not to kiss. Ian looks down at Mickey, their hands on each other, rubbing at shoulders and bellies and backs and sides. Their pelvises are pressed together, sharp hip-bones meeting, pubic hair mixing. He feels Mickey’s ribcage expand and contract against his own chest as he breathes, feels hard little nipples against the skin of his chest and the softness of a belly against his.</p><p>Ian looks down at him, and he can’t think of anything to do at that moment except kiss. It’s exactly what he <i>should</i> be doing. He’s peering into his eyes like he wants to, and Mickey <i>has</i> to know. He has to.</p><p>He wonders if Mickey would let him kiss him. He wonders if he were to press his mouth to Mickey’s--softly, softly--if that would be okay.</p><p>He doesn’t. He doesn’t because he remembers what Mo said--<i>let him do it first</i>--and he trusts that she’s right.</p><p>He leans in, mouth to Mickey’s neck instead of his lips, and kisses him there even still, feeling Mickey’s hands smoothing up and down the skin of his back and then up to his neck and through his hair as Ian drags his mouth downward on his way to Mickey’s hips.</p><p>Mickey makes a noise when Ian gets his mouth around him. It’s sharp and high and peters out into a long, aching breath that makes Ian’s toes curl. </p><p>The fingers in his hair scritch at his scalp, tangle in the strands, and Ian grips his hips and takes him deep and slow, breathing hard out his nose in rhythmic huffs that seem loud in the quiet of the hotel room.</p><p>Mickey’s diamond-hard, harder than he usually is at this stage of the game, and as Ian sucks at him, drags his mouth against his shaft and laves at the head of him with his tongue, he can’t help but wonder if Mickey’s missed him, too.</p><p>---</p><p>Mickey shoves him away after another minute of it, belly rising and falling rapidly like he’s out of breath from holding his orgasm at bay. He pulls Ian up until he’s covering him once more and gets his mouth on his neck, then his throat, then his jaw, not so much kissing as sucking and licking, his hand working its way between them to wrap around Ian’s dick.</p><p>It’s a fight, then. They smile as they take turns with each other’s neck, wrestling each other in an effort to get the upper hand.</p><p>“You’re so fuckin’ annoying,” Mickey complains, arms going around Ian’s waist in an effort to flip him.</p><p>“No, you.” </p><p>Ian lets himself be flipped and then laughs breathily up at Mickey, who straddles his waist and pins his hands to either side of his head.</p><p>Mickey looks at him then in a way that sends Ian’s heart into a pound that’s so fast, so hard that he’s certain Mickey feels it. For a second, he looks like he’s going to kiss him, and Ian’s brain completely shuts down for a long moment that leaves him murmuring, “What?” in response to something Mickey’s said.</p><p>Mickey makes a face at him, brows drawn. “I said <i>you suck</i>.”</p><p>“Oh.”</p><p>Ian blows out a breath and wiggles his fingers in Mickey’s, silently begging him to lace them together.</p><p>He doesn’t. Instead, though, he leans in and presses two sweetly quick kisses to Ian’s collarbone, then flattens himself out on top of him.</p><p>Ian snakes his right hand down between them and takes them both in a firm grip, beginning up a series of strokes as he works his other hand into Mickey’s hair at the back, holding him against him as Mickey leans in and starts back up with his licks and sucks to his neck.</p><p>“You’re really wet,” Ian notes, feeling the littlest bit of slickness against his palm as he rubs it over the head of Mickey’s dick.</p><p>“Holy fuck,” Mickey complains. He’s embarrassed, his mouth stopping its action and instead simply pressing against Ian’s neck.</p><p>It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. It’s hot as hell. Ian plays with him with more focused attention and nudges his cheek with his chin, getting him to look up at him.</p><p>Mickey does, and Ian sees his face is red.</p><p>“Aww.”</p><p>“I fuckin’ hate you.”</p><p>Ian pulls his hand away and grips Mickey’s hips, beaming up at him. “Your dick says otherwise.”</p><p>“Go to hell. It’s been a month, man.”</p><p>Yeah. It has.</p><p>Ian had assumed, of course, that Mickey hadn’t fucked anyone else in the meantime, but he could never be sure. He’d tried to mentally prepare himself, even, for the possibility that they could go to fuck and Mickey would reach for a condom.</p><p>That they’ve maintained their exclusivity makes Ian’s stomach twist. He huffs a breath and slides his hands up Mickey’s sides.</p><p>“A month is a long time,” he says in agreement. “Think we should probably take care of that, then.”</p><p>The corner of Mickey’s mouth pulls up despite his sweet awkwardness. “Yeah. Probably.”</p><p>---</p><p>They do. They <i>take care of it.</i></p><p>Mickey gets up to find the lube, and then Ian preps him and slides in bare, Mickey on all fours and Ian flush to his back, draped over him and covering his body from thighs to hands.</p><p>It isn’t a super comfortable position for Ian, but it’s deep, and Mickey keeps trying to collapse onto the bed in pleasure. </p><p>“Fuck, fuck,” he whispers as Ian presses his mouth to his shoulder and sucks, hips driving into him hard, so, so good.</p><p>Ian slides his left hand around to Mickey’s belly and tugs at his dick for a minute, but Mickey eventually makes a noise of protest and Ian moves his hand back to his hip.</p><p>They get tired of being on their knees. Switch positions. Mickey wants on top so they do it that way, Ian flat on his back with his head on the pillows and Mickey riding him in grinds more so than bounces, palms rubbing up and down Ian’s chest in a way that can only be described as affectionate.</p><p>He slows his movements. Stops.</p><p>Ian looks up at him and raises his brows, the feeling of himself so snug and safe inside Mickey one of the best things he thinks he’s ever felt.</p><p>“Gettin’ hairy, man,” Mickey comments suddenly, thumbs petting at the ginger fuzz on his chest that’s beginning to grow from a fine dusting to fluffier thatches.</p><p>He’s proud of it. He’s excited to be able to have it, to be able to have his body looking like an adult’s after months and months of having to hide it, having to wax and shave.</p><p>He remembers lying on a table in one of the back dressing rooms of the Fairy Tail, a fellow dancer named “Rick” waxing away the peach fuzz he was starting to grow because apparently post-pubescent bodies weren’t really what the clientele wanted.</p><p>Ian squeezes his hands to Mickey’s hips in acknowledgment of what he’s said.</p><p>“Thoughts?”</p><p>Mickey doesn’t answer for a long moment, instead running his hands over it fully, even sliding down to his belly and scritching through the trail of fluff just above his navel.</p><p>“It’s hot,” he finally murmurs, exhaling heavily, part embarrassment, part arousal.</p><p>Ian grins in a way he knows looks stupid as shit--too bright, probably fucking <i>dopey</i>. He can’t help it.</p><p>Obviously, he knows Mickey finds him hot. They fuck. It’s not a secret.</p><p><i>Hearing it</i>, though, is another thing entirely. Ian slides his hands up to Mickey’s sides and tugs him downward so he lies flat against his chest. He bends his legs, feet to the mattress, and fucks up into him because <i>Jesus Christ</i>, he feels so fucking good.</p><p>“You’re hot, too,” he says breathlessly, smiling into Mickey’s hair, and Mickey makes a weak groaning sound and holds on.</p><p>He fucks him like that until he’s tired, then flips them. He bites at Mickey’s shoulder and breathes in hisses with his teeth as he fucks him hard, then slow, then hard again, the nails of Mickey’s left hand digging into the skin of Ian’s back and his right hand jerking himself off between their bodies.</p><p>His head’s tilted back, and his cheeks are red, temples are sweaty. They’ve been fucking for twenty minutes and Ian doesn’t know how it’s lasted even this long. He feels like he’s going to explode, but he never wants this to end.</p><p>Sex with Mickey is like a fucking revelation, is good every time, is <i>better</i> every time. How can something so perfect continue to get <i>better</i>?</p><p>“Fuck, Ian,” Mickey breathes. “Oh God, come inside me.”</p><p><i>That’s</i> how it continues to get better.</p><p>Ian fucks him and fucks him and buries his face in his sweaty neck and does just that, coming inside him early but unable to help it because Mickey is a goddamned menace.</p><p>When he’s done, he takes a deep breath and lifts his head, pressing his lips to Mickey’s jaw and kissing him there, over and over. He’s oversensitive in a way that makes his thighs shake with any extra stimulation, but he thrusts weakly a few more times, giving Mickey what he can as he speeds up his hand on his dick and brings himself to orgasm.</p><p>Mickey’s face during it is beautiful. Ian has to push up on his elbows to watch his eyes scrunch, his teeth clench then release as he moans in a heavy, shaky exhale.</p><p>Ian feels the muscles kick around him. He places his hands on either side of Mickey’s head and holds on to him through it, belly twisting with butterflies because this man, he’s perfect, and he’s incredible, and he’s started doing things to his heart that he can hardly explain.</p><p>---</p><p>They lie there together afterwards, two dead weights smooshed together. Finally, Mickey wiggles and Ian pulls out with a sigh, quickly reaching to the nightstand for a handful of tissues and setting them on Mickey’s belly.</p><p>He looks down. There’s a wet spot already forming on the comforter. Mickey’s got his legs closed so he can’t see the source, but maybe he should… </p><p>He grabs another tissue and holds it in his hand for a second, thinking, before attempting to slide it between Mickey’s legs.</p><p>“The fuck are you doing?” Mickey kicks him away, and Ian drops the tissue on the bed. “Gross. That’s fuckin’ weird, man.”</p><p>“Sorry?” Ian climbs off the bed, grabs another tissue, and starts to wipe down his dick and the smears of come on his stomach.</p><p>“Yeah, just. I dunno.” Mickey gets up and trudges to the bathroom.</p><p><i>Okay, cool</i>, Ian wants to say. <i>Me actually coming inside you isn’t weird, but trying to help you clean up the mess is?</i></p><p>Whatever. He gets that it’s awkward.</p><p>Ian finishes wiping himself down and then pulls back on his clothes. By the time he’s zipping up his jeans, Mickey’s exiting the bathroom.</p><p>He’s acting normal again, pulling on his own clothes and then picking up the room service menu. Ian lets it go.</p><p>---</p><p>They get a platter of chicken tenders with four different sauces and a basket of crinkle-cut fries, and when the food comes, they sit cross-legged on the bed together and devour it.</p><p>On the TV is <i>Law &amp; Order: SVU</i>, but nobody’s watching it, and Mickey’s put on one of his Spotify playlists, which is playing <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9wiEM0s4aCQ">a long, synthy song</a> that nobody’s listening to. </p><p>“So what’s your meeting about?” Ian asks, grabbing up another chicken tender and dunking it in the spicy mango sauce. </p><p>He hopes this is <i>later</i>--that Mickey’s willing to let him in on this when he never really has before.</p><p>For a long moment, he thinks maybe he’s overstepped, that he shouldn’t have asked because Mickey’s not going to tell him. His heart pounds.</p><p>Mickey chews his mouthful of fries, slow like he’s in no hurry to respond to Ian’s question. He swallows. Picks up his bottle of beer he’d ordered from room service. Takes a pull from it. Wipes his mouth.</p><p>Ian holds his breath.</p><p>“Uhh,” he finally intones, setting back down his beer and picking up a chicken tender. He tears it in half and dunks it in barbecue sauce forcefully enough that some of the liquid spills over the edge of the condiment bowl.</p><p>He takes a bite, a bit of the sauce getting on the corner of his mouth, and he swipes it away with his thumb before licking it off.</p><p>“A SneakAttack thing,” he mumbles with his mouth full. “I’m not supposed to tell anybody about it.”</p><p>“Oh.” Ian’s heart sinks.</p><p>It isn’t a big deal. Contracts are contracts and Mickey is involved in a whole business world Ian knows nothing about. He does much more than simply record himself playing video games and take part in livestreams. </p><p>He meets his eyes, though it’s hard despite it all, and opens his mouth to say, <i>Okay, cool</i>, when Mickey continues.</p><p>“So uh, you gotta swear you won’t squeal.”</p><p>Wait. <i>Really</i>? Ian’s breath leaves him in a <i>whoosh</i>. He picks up his Dr. Pepper. Chugs an inch of it.</p><p>“Yeah,” he says after swallowing and wiping his lips. “I won’t. I swear.”</p><p>Mickey studies his face as if to gauge whether he can trust him, then shrugs.</p><p>“Uhh, maybe got this game thing in the works if it pans out. It’s a long way off, so nothin’ to cream your boxers over. But SneakAttack asked me to consult on like creative direction and storylines and shit on a Fall 2023 release.”</p><p>“<i>What</i>? Holy shit!”</p><p>“Yeah.” Mickey’s cheeks flame up sweetly, pink working its way from his neck clear up to his hairline. He gives a faint smile, and Ian knows he’s proud of this.</p><p>Fuck, he <i>should</i> be.</p><p>“So you’re coming up with the story and the characters?”</p><p>“Not <i>completely</i>. Workin’ with Charlie, y’know. They contacted me after the Valentine’s Day stream. Think he’s gonna come up with the main storyline and all that, but I get to give suggestions and tell him when his shit sucks ass.”</p><p>Ian beams. “You’ll be good at that.”</p><p>Mickey chuckles, pleased with himself in the cutest fucking way, and crams the entire second half of the chicken tender in his mouth like a kid at the dinner table.</p><p>Ian’s completely serious when he says that, too. There is no one he thinks could ever be better at or more suited to a job in which he gets to provide constructive criticism on storylines and characters. It’s what Mickey already does, really, but this time he’ll be catching it before it makes it to players’ consoles.</p><p>He knows he and Mickey don’t have a romantic relationship in the technical sense, but they’re friends. He can’t help but be so incredibly proud of him. Proud in the sense that he wants to tell everyone he knows how great he is. How smart and talented. Strong and beautiful. The backs of his knees sweat with it, skin feels electric.</p><p>They finish up their food and together manage to take down 20 chicken tenders and the equivalent of a super-sized order of fries. All the while, they talk about Mickey’s ideal game, the timeline, how much money he could bring in with this.</p><p>Afterward, they toss their trash, and Ian changes his clothes, pulling on sweats and an army green Lincoln Grove JROTC T-shirt that’s looser on him now than it was when he was sixteen and bulked up after a summer of intense training.</p><p>“Such a fuckin’ nerd,” Mickey says, shoving him down on the bed and climbing on beside him.</p><p>They sit side-by-side with their backs to the headboard, playing on their phones and idly watching <i>SVU</i>.</p><p>“Hey,” Mickey murmurs after several minutes, turning his head to look at him. “You can’t tell,” he reiterates, referring to his business with SneakAttack. “Not even Mandy. She can’t keep a secret for shit.”</p><p>Ian wants to refute him on that. He thinks sometimes she can keep secrets pretty well.</p><p>His heart hurts when he thinks of her. There have been no new incidents since the first; he’s been keeping tabs on her, checking on her in some form or fashion every day. Still.</p><p>He takes a deep breath.</p><p>“Promise,” he says, holding out his pinkie. </p><p>Mickey looks at him. Doesn’t make a move to link his own pinkie with Ian’s. “You’ve been hanging out with my sister too much.”</p><p>Ian wiggles his pinkie.</p><p>“Jesus Christ.”</p><p>He <i>does it</i>, hooking their pinkies together and consenting to a shake, and it’s one of Ian’s favorite things ever.</p><p>Mickey <i>chh</i>s and rolls his eyes, and the two of them settle back against the headboard.</p><p>“So how often do you talk to Mandy?” Ian asks after a minute, genuinely curious but also wondering whether she’s talked to Mickey about what happened with her dad.</p><p>She hasn’t mentioned anything else about it to Ian, and Ian hasn’t asked. Though they’re fast, close friends, he’s fairly certain she’s going to try avoiding talking about it with him altogether unless she absolutely must.</p><p>Mickey hums. “I dunno. Text her a few times a week. She calls me a couple times a month, I guess.” He shrugs. “Why?”</p><p>In retrospect, Ian wants to kick himself for what he says next. There are approximately a thousand different ways he could respond to that question that don’t make him sound suspicious. Even still, the response that comes out is the most frustrating obvious response in the world.</p><p>“Uhh, no reason.”</p><p>Fuck. <i>No reason</i>. The hugest tell in the universe.</p><p>Mickey turns to look at him. “What?”</p><p>Ian tries to look innocent and simply shrugs in response. He reaches for his bottle of Dr. Pepper, uncaps it, and takes a distracted sip. That was another wrong move. </p><p>He’s so fucking stupid.</p><p>“Mandy say something to you?”</p><p>“No, no, no,” Ian assures, finally meeting Mickey’s eyes. “It’s nothing. I was just curious ‘cause she acts like she talks to you a lot.”</p><p>“You’re being fuckin’ cagey. What’s going on with my sister?”</p><p>“Nothing.”</p><p>Mickey huffs, frustrated. “Ian.” He turns his body completely to face him. “What the fuck’s going on?”</p><p>Ian exhales heavily. He sets down his Dr. Pepper and rubs both hands over his face.</p><p>Mandy’s going to fucking hate him.</p><p>“Couple weeks ago, Mandy called me to meet her at like, ten at night.”</p><p>Mickey’s eyes grow hard, his gaze suddenly cutting away and breath quickening. It occurs to Ian then that he knows what’s coming. He knows exactly. It’s why he pressed in the first place.</p><p>“Uhh, your dad.”</p><p>“My dad <i>what</i>.”</p><p>“He’d like, beat her. Her face was…” He can’t finish. He watches Mickey’s face crumple, listens to his breath speed to near hyperventilation levels. </p><p>Suddenly, Mickey launches himself from the bed and starts digging around on the floor for a pair of jeans.</p><p>“Mickey.”</p><p>“I’m gonna kill him.”</p><p>“<i>What</i>?”</p><p>“I’m gonna go buy a fuckin’ gun, and I’m gonna blow his brains <i>all over the fuckin’ wall</i>.”</p><p>After finding a pair of jeans, Mickey tosses them onto the bed and works on pulling down his sweats.</p><p>“Mickey.”</p><p>“He’s not gonna touch her. I’ll bash his head in with a fuckin’ baseball bat.”</p><p>“<i>Mickey</i>.” Ian climbs off the bed and moves over to him, taking him by the forearms and stopping him from stepping into his jeans. “Mickey. Take a deep breath. Think.”</p><p>He pulls away violently, sliding one leg into his pants. “Think about <i>what</i>? I’m gonna kill him, and nobody’s gonna give a shit.”</p><p>Ian takes a deep breath, watching him slide in his other leg and start to tug the jeans up his hips. “Mickey, it’s almost midnight. You’re not gonna go kill him right now.”</p><p>Leaving his jeans unbuttoned, Mickey moves over to the bed and picks up his phone. He taps around for a moment, then brings the phone to his ear, holding it against his face with his shoulder while he works on doing up his pants.</p><p>His breathing speeds the longer he waits, and Ian stands there helplessly, watching him come apart.</p><p>“She’s not answering,” Mickey says quickly, desperately, pulling his phone away from his ear. He looks down at the screen and then, tapping once, tries to call her again.</p><p>He doesn’t bring the phone to his ear this time, and Ian can hear it ring out endlessly.</p><p>“Mickey. <i>Mickey.</i>”</p><p>Ian grabs his own phone and pulls up Instagram. </p><p>“Look,” he says, holding it up in front of his face. “She’s at a college party. She posted this story like, an hour ago. She’s safe.”</p><p>Mickey closes his eyes. Drops his hands from the front of his pants.</p><p>“You’re not gonna kill him tonight,” Ian says, setting down his phone and braving potential violence by placing his hands on Mickey’s shoulders.</p><p>Mickey breathes hard like he’s trying to calm himself. His nostrils flare and his eyes are watery. “I’m gonna kill him,” he repeats. </p><p>“Not tonight.”</p><p>“I’m gonna kill him tomorrow.”</p><p>Fine. Ian swallows.</p><p>“Okay,” he relents. “Tomorrow.”</p><p>Mickey stares into Ian’s eyes, expression so full of loathing that it makes something in Ian’s stomach turn. Mickey <i>hates</i> his father. Absolute hatred.</p><p>Ian gives his shoulders a squeeze, an attempt at a comforting massage. He doesn’t know what to do. Mickey’s still watching him like an animal gone feral, about to run and attack at any moment.</p><p>“Mickey,” he says, not knowing where he’s going with the sentence but hoping it comes to him one word at a time.</p><p>“And <i>you</i>.” Mickey says, the hatred on his face not shifting even a shade. He shoves Ian away from him with such force that the back of his legs hit the side of the bed and he threatens to fall onto it.</p><p>“Did you say it’s been a <i>couple</i> of weeks? My fuckin’ <i>sister</i> got the shit beat out of her and <i>you didn’t tell me</i>?”</p><p>“I promised Mandy I wouldn’t say anything.”</p><p>“Are you <i>serious</i>? You <i>tell</i> people about shit like that, Ian! It’s my little sister.”</p><p>The look on Mickey’s face suddenly goes from hatred to hurt, and Ian’s heart breaks as Mickey presses his palms over his eyes and grimaces. When he removes his hands, his beautiful blue eyes are red-rimmed and shiny.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Ian apologizes, feeling drained. Weak. “I didn’t want to break a promise. I checked on her every day, Mickey.”</p><p>“I don’t fuckin’ care.”</p><p>Mickey, jeans still unbuttoned, heads over to the table by the fridge, where a mostly-full bottle of Jim Beam rests. He picks it up, unscrews the lid, and takes a pull straight from the bottle.</p><p>“Mickey.”</p><p>“Will you shut the fuck up?”</p><p>Ian sits down on the bed. Waits.</p><p>It’s a standoff. Mickey hunts around for a water glass, drinking straight from the bottle all the while, then comes to stand two feet from the bed, the most unhappy look on his face Ian’s ever seen. </p><p>He’s miserable. It’s so obvious to Ian, who watches him with his heart in his throat, trying but unable to keep a look of sympathy off his face.</p><p>Neither of them say anything. Mickey pours way too much bourbon in the water glass and then sets the open bottle on the TV stand. He takes a slow, shaky sip, his breath puffing out against the liquid loudly enough for Ian to hear it from where he sits.</p><p>“Fuck you for not telling me sooner,” Mickey says after a heavy, burning swallow he winces through. Some of the fight has left his voice. A bit of the coolness leaves Ian’s belly.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” he says, sincere. “I was just trying to be a good friend.”</p><p>“Yeah, a good friend would’ve told her brother so he could go murder their dad in cold blood.”</p><p>Ian blows out a breath. They’re okay. Mickey’s pissed, but that last statement carried with it a wry enough undertone to give Ian an ounce of reassurance.</p><p>“Sorry.”</p><p>Mickey watches him. Drinks.</p><p>“She stayed at Hunter’s for like a week after. I think she’s back now, but I’ve been checking on her.” He looks down at the wood floor. “It’s not an excuse, I know.”</p><p>Mickey sighs loudly. Ian looks back up at him and spies something complicated on his face. He bites his lip, takes another sip of bourbon, and then slowly trudges over to the bed. Sits.</p><p>Wordlessly, the two of them once more migrate to the headboard, side-by-side but three feet apart.</p><p>Mickey hands Ian the glass, and Ian takes it.</p><p>The bourbon burns the shit out of his throat, and to his chagrin, he can’t help but cough at it. He hands it back. Remembers another time in a different hotel room when Mickey had offered him bourbon after a fight, this time in a flask.</p><p>Mickey makes a noise after taking the glass, and Ian coughs one last time and turns to look at him.</p><p>He’s working his mouth like he’s just learning how to get words out. He picks up his phone, taps around on it for a moment, and Ian can hear the <i>whoosh</i> of a text being sent.</p><p>Finally, with a resigned sigh, Mickey murmurs, “Mandy just takes shit and thinks she fuckin’ deserves it.”</p><p>Ian watches him watch his phone. There’s a <i>swoop</i> sound of a received message, and Mickey, apparently satisfied with whatever it says, locks his phone, sets it on the nightstand, and runs his hands over his face.</p><p>“Look. I’m in LA, man. I don’t know what shit’s goin’ on. Iggy and Colin are fuckin’ useless.” He takes a slow sip of his drink. Sniffs. It sounds a little wet, though Ian’s certain the tears, if there were any, never made it past his lashline. </p><p>“You’ve gotta tell me that shit, Ian. I don’t give a fuck if Mandy makes you take a blood oath.”</p><p>“Yeah.” Ian nods. “Got it.”</p><p>Mickey gazes at him for a long moment before cutting his eyes away, focusing them instead on his glass.</p><p>“Mandy’s like Mom was. Trusting. Wants to help people.” He scoffs. “Gets kicked around and thinks it’s her fault.”</p><p>Ian nods. “She said you weren’t like that.”</p><p>Mickey sucks his teeth. Lowers his brows in a way that makes Ian question Mandy’s perception of her brother. </p><p>Mickey just shrugs, though. Doesn’t refute the statement.</p><p>“He beat the shit out of us, y’know.”</p><p>Ian doesn’t respond, but Mickey turns to him. Looks him dead in the eye. “You <i>know</i>. I know Mandy’s mentioned it.”</p><p>Yeah, okay. Ian nods. </p><p>Mickey turns away, eyes on the TV but not actually watching. “Fuckin’ terrorized us. Tossed lit cigarettes at us. Came at us with a fireplace poker. I missed a month of second grade ‘cause he beat me so bad for telling him to go to hell after he caught me playing Barbies with Mandy that Mom was afraid the school would call DCFS.” </p><p>He laughs bitterly. </p><p>“Knocked out four baby teeth. Mom made up some excuse about me having pneumonia. The whole fuckin’ class made me Get Well cards with little hearts and shit and Terry called me into the living room and threw ‘em into the fireplace in front of me. Didn’t even get to read ‘em.”</p><p>Ian’s eyes fill. He can’t help it. </p><p>Maybe <i>he’ll</i> kill Terry. Get a gun. Blow his brains out.</p><p>“Then there was the shit when I was twelve, and…” Mickey sighs. Sniffs. Presses his lips together.</p><p>Ian wonders what happened. He remembers Mandy saying, <i>After what Terry did to him</i>.</p><p>He considers asking. <i>What happened when you were twelve?</i></p><p>He doesn’t. Mickey drinks, and for a moment, Ian thinks he’s going to cry. Something goes through his head--passes visibly over his face--and his lower lip shakes. He gets one palm up to press against each eye, and his breath hitches just once, a little catch on the inhale.</p><p>“You’ve gotta tell me this shit,” he repeats. “She’s my little sister.”</p><p>“I will, Mickey. I promise.”</p><p>He laughs, and it’s wet. Sniffs. “Fuckin’ pinkie promise that shit, bitch.”</p><p>Ian laughs back. He holds out his pinkie. Mickey hooks his own around it and they shake once.</p><p>Nobody pulls away, and for a full three minutes, they sit there together, pinkies linked. Mickey drinks with his left hand. Ian memorizes the texture of every skin cell rubbing up against his.</p><p>---</p><p>“I love her, y’know,” Ian says later, once Mickey’s done with his drink and is sleepy and slow, not drunk but on his way there.</p><p>Mickey nods. “Yeah, I know.”</p><p>“I’ll protect her when you aren’t here.”</p><p>“You fuckin’ better.”</p><p>Ian bumps Mickey’s shoulder with his own. Mickey bumps him back. They stay like that, arms flush. Six feet of space along the headboard and they’re squished together in the middle.</p><p>“Hey,” Ian says after several minutes pass. </p><p>Mickey takes a deep breath and looks at him. He rolls his eyes. “What?”</p><p>“I think you’re amazing.” A beat. “Just wanted you to know that.”</p><p>He hadn’t meant to make Mickey cry, but that’s what happens anyway.</p><p>Mickey turns his head away and brings the sleeve of his hoodie up to his face, holding it there for a long moment, breath shaky. </p><p>A tear falls from Ian’s own eye, and he quickly swipes it away.</p><p>And he’s just about to do it, just about to bury his face in Mickey’s neck and pull him close, when Mickey climbs off the bed, picks up his pillow, and throws it at Ian’s head. There are tears on his cheeks and his eyes and nose are red and shiny.</p><p>“I’m gonna go take my fuckin’ depression meds, you pussy,” he says, voice thick.</p><p>Ian leans back against the headboard and laughs wetly, thinking this man might just turn out to be the love of his life.</p><p>---<br/>
---</p><p>Sleeping together that night is uneventful. They keep their pajamas on, keep to their own sides of the bed.</p><p>Mickey’s obnoxious-as-hell alarm goes off at eight, and the two of them take turns using the shower, Ian ordering room service breakfast while Mickey’s using it, and by the time Ian’s clean and dressed, the pancake and sausage platter has arrived.</p><p>The sit side-by-side on the couch, the food on the coffee table, and eat, sipping hotel room coffee-maker coffee out of white mugs.</p><p>Mickey’s meeting is on the West Side at 11:00, and as they sit there in mostly silence, enjoying their breakfast, Ian can’t help but wonder something.</p><p>He takes one last sip of his lukewarm coffee and sets it on the table.</p><p>“Are you gonna see your dad later?”</p><p>Mickey stops chewing, a shadow passing over his face, before resuming again. He swallows. Takes a drink of his own coffee.</p><p>Ian watches his face carefully. For all the fight that was in Mickey the night before, Ian can tell he doesn’t actually want to see him.</p><p>He blows out a breath, heavy. “Uh, probably,” he says, scratching his jaw. “After the meeting.”</p><p>Ian nods. He presses his lips together. Considers.</p><p>And well, he knows the answer will be <i>no</i>. There’s not a chance in hell it’ll be anything else. But he figures he can at least offer, let Mickey know he cares about him.</p><p>“I can go with you,” he says, eyes on the half-eaten pancake platter. “If you want. I mean, four fists are better than two.”</p><p>Mickey smiles at that, and it’s genuine and sweet. That curious look passes over his face, the same one Ian’s seen a hundred times, the one Ian would love more than anything to ask him about.</p><p>He waits patiently for Mickey to turn him down. Call him a dick. Make a joke about how he thinks two fists are perfectly sufficient.</p><p>He’s surprised as hell when it never comes.</p><p>Instead, Mickey shrugs lightly and bites his lip, dragging his teeth across the skin and then releasing.</p><p>“I dunno.” He picks up a sausage and dips it in a pool of maple syrup. “I’ll text you when I’m out of my meeting.”</p><p>---</p><p>While Mickey’s gone, Ian pockets the extra keycard he’d left for him and then takes the L to Pulaski and meets Lip for pie at Patsy’s.</p><p>He’s home for the weekend and has been checking out summer internship prospects. Ian hasn’t seen him since the day they’d gotten tested together, so he greets him with a hug and a wry, “Hey, buddy,” and they shoot the shit for several minutes before ordering.</p><p>“Went by the house this morning,” Lip says once their pie slices have arrived, taking a sip from his travel mug of coffee which he’d filled up behind the bar on his way in.</p><p>“Oh yeah?”</p><p>“Yeah. You weren’t there. And get this: Liam said you’re famous.”</p><p>Ian laughs outright and cuts off a bit of his pie. “That’s bullshit.”</p><p>“Yeah, I figured.” </p><p>Lip eyes him knowingly, and Ian rolls his eyes.</p><p>“I’ve got like 12,000 Instagram followers now since Mickey posted the series we recorded.”</p><p>“Uh huh, <i>and</i>...”</p><p>“<i>And</i> I was with him last night, and I’m gonna be with him again today. He’s doing a business thing right now.”</p><p>Lip smirks at him, his dimples going deep. He takes a bite of pie and then waves his fork at his brother. “You’re in love with the guy.”</p><p>“I’m not in love with him.”</p><p>Lip raises his brows.</p><p>“I’m <i>a little</i> in love with him.” Ian flips him off. “I dunno.”</p><p>“My advice? Don’t let it get too serious.”</p><p>“Didn’t ask for your advice.”</p><p>Lip shrugs. “Whatever. Just sayin’. He’s from LA. Don’t let him fuck you up in the head.” He reaches over and taps Ian’s temple.</p><p>Ian rolls his eyes. “If we’re avoiding me getting fucked up in the head, I think it’s a little too late for that, man. Brain’s pretty fucked already.”</p><p>“Which is frankly a surprise, considering our genes.”</p><p>“Yeah. Perfectly average parents. Not a mental illness in sight.”</p><p>Lip nods. “No addictions to worry about.”</p><p>“None of us turned out gay.” Ian laughs, and Lip smirks again and kicks him under the table.</p><p>---</p><p>After they’re done with their pie, they head outside and smoke together in the alleyway.</p><p>Ian checks his watch. 1:08.</p><p>“What are you and loverboy up to today?” Lip asks, blowing a deliberate stream of smoke in Ian’s direction.</p><p>
  <i>Oh, I dunno. Potentially beating the shit out of an old guy with cancer. What about you?</i>
</p><p>“Uhh, nothing much,” Ian says, taking a drag off his own cigarette. “Probably just gonna hang out. I haven’t seen him in a month, so.”</p><p>Lip holds his cigarette between his lips and brings up his fingers into air quotes. “Yeah,” he says, muffled. “‘Hang. Out.’ Don’t rub your dicks raw.”</p><p>Ian kicks his leg out at him, and Lip kicks him back.</p><p>---</p><p>Mickey texts not long after Lip leaves, while Ian is standing outside Patsy’s, considering his options for killing time.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Mickey (1:22 PM):</b> just got out </p><p><b>Ian (1:22 PM):</b> 👍</p><p><b>Mickey (1:23 PM):</b> you can come with me if you really want</p><p><b>Mickey (1:23 PM):</b> guess i could use the extra fists</p><p>------------------------</p><p>Ian’s chest floods with so many conflicting emotions at once that he feels lightheaded and loose.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (1:24 PM):</b> Okay cool</p><p>------------------------</p><p>He has to breathe through his mouth in order to get enough oxygen.</p><p>Mickey orders an Uber to pick Ian up from Patsy’s, stop at SneakAttack, and then continue on to the Milkovich house.</p><p>The whole way there, Ian’s stomach is in knots. He doesn’t know the nature of going to the Milkovich house. Aside from knowing from Mandy it’s Southside, vaguely Canaryville, near enough to the abandoned warehouse they frequent on the edge of Fuller Park to be within short walking distance, he doesn’t even know what to expect. He doesn’t know if he’s going to see Terry or just wait outside. He doesn’t know if Mickey intends to beat him or kill him or whether Ian will be expected to participate.</p><p>All he knows as the Uber driver pulls up to the curb in front of SneakAttack HQ is that he’s willing to do pretty much anything.</p><p>---</p><p>Ian doesn’t ask about the meeting in the Uber, as he doesn’t want the driver to hear anything he shouldn’t. Anyway, Mickey clearly doesn’t feel like talking. When he climbs into the backseat of the Lexus with Ian, he just nods his head at him in greeting and then settles in against the opposite door, peering out the window.</p><p>He gives the driver the address in a dazed voice, and though Ian doesn’t recognize it specifically, he knows the street from his ventures with Mandy. It’s closer to the warehouse than he’d even thought--no more than a five minute walk.</p><p>Though the Gallagher house and the Milkovich house are about a forty-minute walk apart--enough distance that the families went to different schools and never came in contact with one another--they’re both still Southside. The surroundings never cease being familiar, and Ian watches from the car as they pass by the same sights he’s seen since his birth. </p><p>Dealers and hookers on street corners. Cops roughing up men just trying to live. Crime scene tape.</p><p>As they turn onto Mickey’s old street, Ian finds that even the houses look the same. Half-dilapidated and entirely dilapidated. A smattering of nice, renovated constructions, gentrification at its finest. </p><p>The Uber pulls up in front of a brown brick home that looks like it's seen better days. The fence out front is bent like someone’s kicked it in. Weeds grow up around it. There’s trash in the yard--beer bottles and food packages. Random cardboard shit. Auto parts.</p><p>On the porch is an old, ratty couch turned on its side.</p><p>Ian climbs out once the Uber driver has been idling for a good thirty seconds without action from the backseat. It takes Mickey longer.</p><p>There’s no old, beat-up Honda parked nearby, so Mandy isn’t home. Ian looks at the disarray of the front yard--<i>deliberate</i> disarray, like whomever lives in the house wants to come across as unappealing as possible--and imagines his beautiful best friend living there.</p><p>“You ever seen it?” Mickey asks, and Ian jumps a little with surprise, in his daze not having heard him make his way around the car to the sidewalk.</p><p>Ian shakes his head. “No. Me and Mandy go to the abandoned warehouse nearby, though.” He goes to point in the general direction, but Mickey just nods, not looking at him. </p><p>Ian doesn’t know why it never occurred to him that the warehouse roof wasn’t just Mandy’s childhood hangout.</p><p>When the Uber driver speeds off behind them, Mickey crosses his arms over his chest and stares up at the house, breath suddenly coming hard.</p><p>“I’m gonna kill him,” he says, low.</p><p>Ian’s heart stops.</p><p>“One day, I’m gonna stomp a fuckin’ boot through his face.” Mickey uncrosses his arms and pats at his pockets for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. </p><p>He pulls one out, lights it, and takes a long, slow drag. “I’ll do the time. Turn myself in.” Smoke seeps from his lips as he speaks.</p><p>He ignores Ian, talking as if to air, eyes transfixed on the house. “It’ll be worth it to see the life leave his fucking eyes.”</p><p>And because he knows he isn’t really being spoken to, Ian doesn’t respond, just lets Mickey get it out.</p><p>“Can’t lay a hand on Mandy again. Let him rot in the ground. I’ll piss on his grave.”</p><p>Ian swallows and, slowly, gently, reaches out and touches his shoulder.</p><p>As if surprised at Ian’s presence, Mickey <i>hm</i>s and seems to snap out of it.</p><p>He takes another hard drag off his cigarette and then drops it on the sidewalk though it still has life left in it. Crushes it under the toe of his boot.</p><p>“C’mon,” he says, stalking off toward the porch steps and not waiting for Ian to follow.</p><p>---</p><p>As Ian ascends the steps behind Mickey, crosses the porch, waits as the other man works open the front door which is bloated in the frame and sticks, he tries to imagine what he’s going to find in that house.</p><p>He imagines a man in his fifties dressed in a white power shirt with the sleeves cut off, smoking a cigar and sharpening a knife at the kitchen table. Cleaning a gun. Drinking a beer. Maybe there’s a Nazi flag hanging on the wall.</p><p>He cracks his knuckles, heart beating a mile a minute as the front door wrenches open with a rough, dragging sound, Mickey having shoved at it with his shoulder in a way that looked practiced, like he’d done it many times before.</p><p>
  <i>This is where Mickey grew up.</i>
</p><p>Ian swallows heavily. Steps inside behind Mickey.</p><p>It’s dark inside, all the curtains drawn and nothing but the glow of the blaring TV to light it. </p><p>“Jesus Christ,” Mickey whispers, moving over toward the TV, and Ian doesn’t know whether he’s commenting on the loud volume or the <i>smell</i> of the room.</p><p>Piss and shit. Literally. Distinctly human. Ian holds his fist to his nostrils to keep the stench at bay as he follows Mickey further into the house.</p><p>It isn’t until he’s halfway through the living room that he spots him, the sudden realization sparked by Mickey muting the TV and pulling open the curtains, casting light on the pathetic figure lying on the couch.</p><p>He’s skinny and unshaven, dressed in a filthy once-white tanktop and checkered boxers. He’s wearing a silk robe overtop but it’s open, half of it hanging off the side of the couch and the belt having fallen into a child’s sand pail partially full of brown piss.</p><p>On the coffee table are wads and wads of bloody, phlegmy tissues, a few beer cans, and an entire row of bottles of prescription painkillers Ian’s willing to bet aren’t prescribed to him.</p><p>“Is he dead?” Ian asks stupidly, amazed that the sheer amount of sound cast from the TV hadn’t woken him up.</p><p>Mickey laughs bitterly and begins to wander through the house, practically stomping and making no attempt to be quiet for the sake of his dad. “I wish. Fucker’s just full of enough percs to stiff a horse.”</p><p>Feeling awkward, Ian doesn’t attempt to follow Mickey everywhere, but he walks further into the house. Spies the kitchen, the table full of weapons and filing tools--almost like what he’d imagined but more indicative of an organized operation than an old man caring for an arsenal.</p><p>There are bedrooms down the hall, and Mickey checks every one, searching for something or some<i>one</i> but finding nothing.</p><p>After making his rounds, he curses under his breath and beats the wall with his fist hard enough to crumble a bit of the paper-thin plaster. He returns to the living room, huffing loudly, anger building in his veins. </p><p>By the TV stand is a baseball bat, and Mickey picks it up, working it in his hands like he’s feeling it out, getting used to it again.</p><p>Ian panics, fear suddenly filling his gut--not for the piece of shit on the couch but for Mickey. Mickey, who’s beautiful. Mickey, who deserves so much more than giving up his life for jail time. </p><p>He opens his mouth to say his name, to ask him if he’s sure, to ask him to pause, to think for a minute, when Mickey takes the bat, stalks over to the couch, and swings it as hard as he can--hard enough that he grunts with it, the grunt turning to a full-on yell when the bat makes contact.</p><p>Ian had squeezed his eyes shut at the end, expecting the bat to bash through an old man’s skull, expecting blood and brain matter, the force of the swing so massive it would’ve had to have obliterated anything it hit.</p><p>He opens his eyes when Mickey yells, “Wakey-wakey, <i>motherfucker</i>.”</p><p>The bat had hit the armrest hard enough to knock off a piece of the wooden accent, and Terry Milkovich is suddenly awake, gasping desperately for air, having been shocked into a near panic-attack and scrambling to sit up.</p><p>Ian hates the fact that his eyes are the same shade of blue as Mickey’s, that Mickey got something so beautiful from someone so awful.</p><p>“The <i>ffffuck</i> are you doin’ here?” Terry slurs, half out of his mind with opioids.</p><p>Mickey swings the bat again, pummeling the couch a foot from Terry’s head. “I’m here for you, you weak-ass piece of shit.”</p><p>“Ffffuckin’ fag. Get the fffuck outta my house.”</p><p>His head lolls when he speaks as if he’s about to fall asleep, eyes half-lidded and unfocused.</p><p>Mickey makes an exaggerated <i>thinking</i> face, <i>hmmm</i>ing thoughtfully. </p><p>“Nah,” he says, swinging the bat again and narrowly missing Terry’s piss bucket.</p><p>He drops it with a clatter and leans in, smacking at Terry’s cheeks. “You gonna wake up, Pops? Think you’re gonna wanna be awake for this ‘cause I’ve got some shit to say.”</p><p>Terry’s arms come up then, quicker than Ian’d been expecting based on his previously-established lethargy, and he makes a grab for Mickey, who easily wrestles out of any attempt at a grip he’s able to get on him.</p><p>“Fffuck you,” Terry slurs. “Ge’cher hands off me, ffuckin’ pillow-biter.” He makes another attempt at a grab, getting Mickey by the hair this time, and Mickey grunts and twists away, elbowing him in the jaw, making him yell, enraged.</p><p>“Fffuckin’ kill youuu.”</p><p>Mickey backhands him across the face then, the <i>smack</i> loud in the now-silence of the house.</p><p>“Ain’t nobody dyin’ here ‘cept for you, <i>bitch</i>,” Mickey says, stepping back and shaking his head with a laugh. After a moment, he leans in close again. Murmurs, “Ain’t that right, Pops? What they give ya now? Six months? Less?”</p><p>Terry throws a punch toward Mickey’s face, and it lands but ineffectually, getting him just under the eye but in a way that makes merely a soft slapping sound due to weakness.</p><p>Ian steps forward then, ready to intervene if needed, and it’s then that Terry apparently sees him for the first time.</p><p>He <i>laughs</i>, the laugh turning to a cough which turns to a hack which turns to him leaning over the side of the couch and spitting a bloody wad of phlegm onto the floor by Mickey’s shoe. He suddenly seems more awake, the force of the cough having cleared away some of the cobwebs, and he scoots up further until he’s in a partially-upright position.</p><p>He hacks again, and Ian watches Mickey’s mouth working, watches his eyes go dead as he steps back and sees his dad cough blood and chunky shit onto the front of his filthy shirt before spitting once more onto the floor.</p><p>“Get the fffuck outta my house, you Hollywood fffaggot. That your pole-sssmokin’ boyfriend?”</p><p>Ian takes another step forward, but Mickey shakes his head at him, and he freezes in place.</p><p>Something’s going on with Mickey now. He stares at his dad, breathing hard, hands in flexing fists at his sides.</p><p>Terry continues to spout abuse, and Mickey just stands there, mouth working, loud puffs of breath blowing out through his nose. His eyes are unfocused, and Ian doesn’t know whether he’s gearing up to leave or to commit a murder.</p><p>Mickey’s eyes go to the bat on the floor, then his father’s face. Suddenly, he stalks forward, one step, two, and bends until his face is an inch away from Terry’s, the two of them sharing the same breath.</p><p>“If you <i>ever</i> touch Mandy again, I’ll kill you with my bare fucking hands.”</p><p>Terry grabs for him, and Mickey shoves him back, breaking the grip before declaring, voice hard as steel and icier than Ian’s ever heard it, “And I guarantee you, fucking <i>bitch</i>, that when you die, I’m gonna throw the biggest, <i>faggiest</i> fucking party just for you. Rainbow flags, motherfucker.”</p><p>He slaps Terry hard across the face and shoves himself away, turning around and making his way toward the front door.</p><p>“We’re done here,” he says, already reaching for his cigarettes.</p><p>---</p><p>They sit on the porch afterward and share a cigarette in silence.</p><p>Ian doesn’t attempt to make conversation, instead letting Mickey have as much time as he needs, letting him set the whens and whats and hows.</p><p>Mickey hands over the cigarette with just enough for one more puff, and Ian takes it. Presses it between his lips. Inhales.</p><p>He turns to crush it out on the porch step beside him, and when he turns back, Mickey’s got his palms pressed to his eyes again, his head bowed.</p><p>Ian’s sat and watched this before. Watched Mickey cry, hands to his eyes to hide it, to hold it back. This time, Ian doesn’t let him do it alone. He wraps a tentative arm around his waist and just holds on to him. Doesn’t pull him close. Lets the weight of his arm give the comfort until Mickey decides he wants more.</p><p>Mickey sniffs loudly and curls inward but doesn’t shrug Ian away.</p><p>They sit like that in silence for what must be five minutes, Mickey periodically removing his palms in order to swipe at his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt.</p><p>“I was the dumbest fuckin’ kid,” he says eventually, voice low and gentle enough to hurt Ian’s heart. “I used to idolize that piece of shit. He used to beat me within an inch of my life, and I still went crawling back like a little bitch.”</p><p>Ian lets the moment settle, lets the words rest. After a long moment, he murmurs back, “You weren’t a little bitch, Mickey. You were a little boy who wanted love.”</p><p>Mickey pulls his legs up to the stair in front of him and crumples, face going to his bent knees. Ian drags his arm up and down Mickey’s back, rubbing him as he cries.</p><p>“I hate this,” he says, voice thick and muffled. “I hate this.”</p><p>Ian scoots closer.</p><p>“<i>A little boy</i>,” Mickey intones with a wet scoff. He lifts his head and pulls up the neck of his shirt, wiping his face free of tears. “Was I <i>a little boy</i> on Christmas Eve when I brought him that fuckin’ robe that’s danglin’ in his piss bucket?” He laughs humorlessly. “Asked me after opening it if I was out in LA gettin’ gangraped by a buncha queers.”</p><p>Mickey wipes his face again. Groans. “I was such a pussy. Gave him that robe wrapped up in a box from a designer store ‘cause I thought he might be fuckin’...<i>proud of me</i> or some shit.”</p><p>Ian tightens his arm around his back. Scoots in even more until their sides are flush and Ian can smell the faint tang of nervous sweat on Mickey’s skin.</p><p>“Yes,” he says, not backing down. “You were a little boy.”</p><p>Mickey brings his palms to his eyes again. His back shakes with his quiet cries. </p><p>He lets Ian hold on to him.</p><p>---</p><p>They stay on the porch for another fifteen minutes, smoking another cigarette each. </p><p>Finally, Mickey stands and shakes out his arms and legs, sniffing loudly in a stuffed-nose way and blowing out a heavy breath as if to say, <i>Okay, I’m done.</i></p><p>Ian stands with him.</p><p>He expects Mickey to pull out his phone to order an Uber, but he doesn’t. Instead, he walks down the remainder of the porch steps and turns a left once on the sidewalk. Ian follows.</p><p>---</p><p>They walk for almost an hour, winding their way through the neighborhood and stopping at various points of interest.</p><p>At a lot that’s empty save for a dilapidated shed: “This is where I used to take neighborhood boys who fucked with my sister. Used to tell them I found a stash of guns in the shed but I’d bring them behind it and beat the shit outta them instead.”</p><p>At a convenience store called <i>Wyman’s</i>: “Stole candy and shit from here every day after school and never got caught.”</p><p>“You <i>never</i> got caught? What’d they think you were doing here every day?”</p><p>Mickey shrugs, and Ian smiles at the back of his neck as he walks off toward the next destination.</p><p>At an empty lot under the L tracks: “Did some dealin’ here for a bit ‘til I sold coke to an undercover cop and had to make a run for it.”</p><p>“<i>Shit</i>, Mickey.”</p><p>“Didn’t get caught.” He starts walking again. “<i>This time</i>, at least.”</p><p>“You ever go to juvie?”</p><p>“Yeah, buncha times.”</p><p>“<i>Really</i>?”</p><p>Mickey shrugs. “Twice.”</p><p>---</p><p>Toward the end of their tour, they reach a commercial street filled with stripmalls and dingy little diners Ian knows are probably amazing. The air smells like fried burgers, and Mickey sniffs hard again, trying to unplug his still-stuffed nose enough to smell it. </p><p>“Where we goin’?” Ian asks, following Mickey across the street and into the parking lot of a run-down stripmall, the surrounding pavement cracked and littered with fast-food trash and syringe caps.</p><p>Mickey doesn’t answer, so Ian keeps wordlessly following him until he comes to a stop outside a business that’s been closed for so long that the <i>Sorry, We’re Closed</i> sign is water-stained and curled where it leans up against the interior display window.</p><p>There’s nothing at all in the store save for what looks like ransacked shit.</p><p>Ian leaves the overhang outside the door and wanders back to the parking lot so he can peer up at the sign above the establishment.</p><p><i>J.E. Electronics</i> it reads, but someone’s marked an X over it with red spray paint.</p><p>“What is this place?” Ian asks, rejoining Mickey by the door to the business.</p><p>Mickey hem-haws for a moment, hands sliding into his front pockets and then back out as if he’s anxious.</p><p>“Uhh,” he starts, eyes wandering around the veritably empty stripmall, landing on this and that, on everything but Ian’s face. “It’s where I, uh, got my first computer.”</p><p>“Oh yeah?” Ian moves up to the window, cups his hands around his eyes to block out the light, and peers in. Just junk.</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>The moment settles, silence filled only by a distant honking of car horns. </p><p>Mickey sniffs after a minute. “Um. Jay was the owner. Like, mid-thirties. Broke in here one night with Iggy. We were gonna wipe him out. Fence it.”</p><p>Ian nods at him, letting him know he’s listening.</p><p>“Got caught. Fuckin’...silent alarm system. We were in the back, and Jay just comes bustin’ in here with a pistol. Scared the shit outta us.”</p><p>He laughs at the memory, and his face is sweet like it’s a fond one.</p><p>“Iggy escaped out the back door, but I was fuckin’ stupid. Wanted to impress my family, y’know. Grabbed this big-ass gaming computer with like, rainbow lights and shit ‘cause it looked like it was the most expensive. It was heavier than it looked.”</p><p>Ian grins, having a feeling he knows where this is going.</p><p>“I was like, fourteen, so I was scrawny as shit. Jay just comes up to me like it’s nothing and grabs me. I’m kicking, yelling for Iggy, tryna get a few good hits in.”</p><p>Mickey’s face softens, something warm yet sad washing over it. “Jay just...let me do it. He was this <i>big</i> dude, like, 6’3”, and he just held on to me until I stopped fighting and then he just...let me go.</p><p>“I remember just kinda lookin’ at him ‘cause this dude had a gun and shit. But he just said, ‘What’re you doin’, man?’</p><p>“And I was dumb, y’know, and I think part of me was prob’ly tryna get him to feel sorry for me and shit. He still had the gun. He could blow me up if he wanted to. So I just said, ‘I want it, but I don’t got any money.’</p><p>“Don’t know why I said it like that. I’d never really thought about wantin' it. I was just tryna make money. But that’s what I said. And Jay just let me go and told me to come back the next day.”</p><p>Ian raises a brow. “So did he just give it to you?” he asks, expecting that to be the miraculous start of his YouTube career. From rags to riches in one step.</p><p>“No fuckin’ way.” Mickey smirks. “Thought he was goin’ to, though. Thought he felt sorry for me or something and was gonna box it up and give it to me for free.”</p><p>“So what’d he do?”</p><p>“I showed up the next day, and he told me if I worked at the store with him after school for thirty days, he’d give it to me.</p><p>“Said no at first. Why the fuck would I wanna do that? I was pissed. Really thought he was gonna just give it to me. But on the way out, he asked me if I was hungry. Said he was on his way to the diner,” Mickey nods his head to the right in the direction of a diner that’s still open, three shopfronts down. “Said he’d buy me whatever I wanted.</p><p>“Thought I was scammin’ him or some shit. It’s what it felt like. So I went with him, and he just like, <i>talked</i> to me. Found out he was into video games and shit. He played like, professional league <i>Call of Duty</i> in those geeky championships. Made a shit ton of money. And...I dunno.”</p><p>Mickey shrugs, and he and Ian start making their way toward the diner. “I worked for him. For like, two years. Did legit stuff sometimes. Cleaned. Dusted. The store closed at five, and then we’d just play video games. Eventually, he taught me how to do computer stuff, recording games and shit, and I used to sit in his back room alone in the dark and record myself playing fuckin’ <i>Silent Hill</i>.”</p><p>“Did he give you the computer?”</p><p>“Yeah, but y’know. Couldn’t take it home with me. Terry’d have it gone in two hours. Jay made me my own little set up back in his office, and I used to spend <i>hours</i> there. Every fuckin’ day, even when the shop was closed. Dumb motherfucker trusted me enough to give me a key.”</p><p>“You didn’t steal anything, did you?”</p><p>Mickey shrugs. “No.”</p><p>“Then he wasn’t dumb.” Ian smiles at him. Gives him a teasing little hip-check as they arrive outside of <i>Berta’s Diner</i>, which advertises all-you-can-eat fry baskets and something called the Possum Burger, which gives Ian pause.</p><p>“Hungry?” Mickey asks, and Ian smiles and nods at him as they push through the jangling door and into the tiny restaurant.</p><p>---</p><p>It’s only five, so it’s a little early for dinner, but the two of them order burgers and an all-you-can-eat fry basket, anyway.</p><p>“I’m paying for this,” Ian asserts while they’re eating, checking the prices on the menu board at the front.</p><p>Mickey doesn’t object--just shrugs and mumbles, “Whatever,” his mouth full of Possum Burger which doesn’t actually contain possum. </p><p>As they eat, Mickey tells Ian more of the specifics about beginning his YouTube career. He used to do everything from the shop, and Jay used to help him as much as he could until eventually, Mickey’s knowledge of the editing and upload process surpassed his.</p><p>“He even did that whole geeky-ass, <i>the student has become the master</i> thing.”</p><p>Ian smiles, glad to see Mickey seems to be feeling better. His eyes are still red-rimmed, and he sniffs every now and again, still working on the stuffy nose. But his face changes when he talks about Jay and about YouTube, and Ian eats from their shared basket of fries and takes him in.</p><p>“So what happened to Jay?” Ian asks once Mickey’s story trails off. He picks up his cup of pop and takes a long pull off the straw.</p><p>Mickey shrugs, looking thoughtful. “No fuckin’ idea. Came back to visit a couple years ago and the shop was closed.”</p><p>They finish their food in comfortable silence for several minutes before Mickey suddenly comments, “When I think back on him, I kinda think he <i>had</i> to have been a pedo, y’know? Like, who hangs out with a kid like that?” </p><p>He shrugs, picking up a napkin and wiping ketchup smears from his fingers. “But I go through it in my head, and I can’t think of anything he ever did to me. No like, looks or, y’know, <i>touches</i> or whatever. He was just…<i>nice</i> to me. Left me alone, too. Let me do my own thing unless I needed help.”</p><p>“Maybe he was just a good person,” Ian comments, shrugging back.</p><p>Mickey gives him a look like that’s impossible, like there’s no way anyone would ever be nice to him just because they saw things in him he didn’t see in himself. “Whatever, man.”</p><p>Who knows? Maybe he was a pedo. But Ian wants to think that he saw little fourteen-year-old Mickey Milkovich and knew he was so much better than his circumstances and could <i>be</i> better if only someone helped him.</p><p>---</p><p>Before they leave, they get milkshakes to go and then Ian pays the bill--$23.58. </p><p>They walk another couple blocks with their milkshakes, then order an Uber and sit on a bench to wait for it to arrive.</p><p>They’re quiet for the longest time, and Ian watches Mickey’s face for most of it. Now that they’re away from his old haunts and out on some random street corner in front of a laundromat, Mickey’s face has lost a little of its shine.</p><p>He’s thinking about Terry again, Ian knows instinctually, and that’s further confirmed when Mickey takes out his phone and sends a text.</p><p>He tries not to snoop, but he can’t help his eyes from wandering just once to the screen of his phone, where he sees <b>Mandy</b>💩 at the top of the text thread. Mickey’s texting her, probably about their dad.</p><p>She doesn’t reply, and Mickey puts his phone back in his pocket.</p><p>He looks thoughtful for a moment, sucking on the straw of his milkshake, before murmuring, “Found out he had cancer the day of the stupid fuckin’ Gamerpalooza.”</p><p>Ian’s stomach drops into his intestines. “What?”</p><p>“Yeah.” He huffs an unhappy laugh. Takes a drink of his milkshake. Swallows. “It’s why I was in a bad mood, y’know. Brothers wanted me to pay for him to get some kinda bougie-ass treatment.”</p><p>Ian vaguely remembers the phone conversation he was having in the Marriott bathroom that day. Something about him <i>not giving him a fuckin’ cent.</i></p><p>He’s felt bad about the aftermath of that bathroom encounter before. Now, he just feels awful.</p><p>And he knows it wasn’t his fault. How could he have known? Still, his heart hurts with the thought of Mickey, upset over Terry--filled with conflicted feelings over a man who had abused him so terribly and whom he was expected to keep alive by funding expensive treatment--checking social media to find that half his fanbase was trying to cancel him by accusing him of being a homophobe.</p><p>Ian thinks of Mickey in July, late to the lunch portion of the cooperative gameplay session, having needed to be talked out of his room by Mo and turning up with red-rimmed eyes.</p><p>He swallows heavily, wanting nothing more than to get on his knees. Beg him for forgiveness.</p><p>Mickey sniffs, and Ian looks at him, eyes soft.</p><p>“Iggy and Colin think I’m a piece of shit for not takin’ care of him when I have the money to do it,” he says, peering at a pigeon that’s pecking around on the ground near their feet. “Mandy does, too. She just ain’t sayin’ it.”</p><p>“I don't know your brothers,” Ian begins, scratching the letter I into his styrofoam cup with his thumb, “but I know Mandy loves you.”</p><p>Mickey rolls his eyes. Slurps on his milkshake for a long moment. “She talk about me? Tell you shit?”</p><p>“Mm. Not really. Nothing like, personal or whatever.”</p><p>“<i>Chh</i>. You’ve asked her shit, though.”</p><p>Ian smiles, caught. “Yeah. Same with Mo, y’know. I just wanna know you.”</p><p>“Dick.”</p><p>Ian looks at him, and Mickey smirks.</p><p>“It’s weird as shit you bein’ like, best friends with my sister,” he comments after a couple minutes of silence. He slurps the last bit of his milkshake and tosses it at the garbage can nearby, making it though just barely.</p><p>“Well,” Ian chuckles, “I think it’s weird as shit that I’ve got a friends with benefits sorta situation with my best friend’s celebrity YouTuber brother, so join the club.”</p><p>“Friends with benefits,” Mickey repeats, then scoffs. “What kinda benefits am I gettin’ from this arrangement?”</p><p>When Ian makes an exaggeratedly offended face, Mickey bumps him with his shoulder. And just like the night before, their backs to the headboard, they stay close, arms flush together, until the Uber arrives.</p><p>---<br/>
---</p><p>It’s not a sex kind of night. They arrive back at the hotel at just before eight, change into pajamas, and sit together on the bed, watching movies on premium cable and sharing a beer, which Ian’s allowed himself to relax into for the evening.</p><p>“How’d your meeting go?” Ian asks, just now remembering to ask.</p><p>Mickey smiles though Ian knows he isn’t feeling it and tells him proudly of some of the decisions they made. Runs through the very basic premise of the game, which doesn’t yet have a story or characters, just an atmosphere.</p><p>Ian leans his head against the headboard and listens to Mickey talk about something he loves, something he knows so well, something that saved his life.</p><p>He thinks about this man being abused as a child, having something he doesn’t even speak about taking place when he was twelve, trying to kill himself at sixteen. He thinks about things like strength and perseverance and how Mickey Milkovich is such a kind, beautiful human being despite the pain and horror of his past.</p><p>Mickey has an early flight out the next day, and Ian’d agreed to work the morning shift at Patsy’s, so they go to bed at just after eleven.</p><p>They snuggle into the king-size bed, cozy in their pajamas, three feet between them because there’s enough space for it.</p><p>Together, they lie in the dark, nothing but their breaths breaking the silence of the room.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Ian whispers suddenly because it’s all he can think about.</p><p>The bed creaks, bounces slightly as Mickey turns on his side to face him. He sighs. “What’re you on about?”</p><p>“I’m sorry for assuming shit about you. Y’know. For not being patient. You’re going through so much shit, and all I’ve done is just push and push and push.”</p><p>Mickey doesn’t respond to that, but Ian can feel him watching him. He swallows heavily and, steeling himself, turns to face him.</p><p>Mickey’s eyes shine in the darkness lit only by the lights of Chicago out the window.</p><p>“Thanks,” he murmurs after a long, silent moment.</p><p>Ian thinks this is him accepting his apology, and maybe it is, but it’s also something else. Mickey scoots closer, a foot closer, then another foot until they’re close enough to share a pillow but aren’t.</p><p>They’re close enough to smell each other’s skin. Ian smells the lavender laundry detergent on Mickey’s T-shirt and it reminds him of the scent of the duvet back in LA.</p><p>“Thanks for goin’ with me today, y’know. For not, like, fuckin’ off or whatever.” Mickey huffs unhappily, the breath whispering across Ian’s skin.</p><p>“I’m messed up. I’ve got all kinds of shit wrong with me. Damaged goods.”</p><p>Ian remains silent, letting him finish. He inches his hand across the space between them until his knuckles brush the side of Mickey’s arm, the little hairs tickling his skin. He leaves it there as if on accident, as if he’s unaware of that tiny physical connection.</p><p>“So,” Mickey finishes. “Thanks for still… I dunno. Bein’ okay with me, I guess.”</p><p>Ian’s heart hurts. </p><p>Fuck <i>on accident</i>. Fuck nonchalant. Ian holds Mickey’s forearm with his hand. Runs his thumb back and forth against the warm skin.</p><p>“Well, from one damaged guy to another...” Ian says, knowing the <i>you’re not <b>damaged</b></i> speech is bullshit because no, they <i>are</i> damaged. They <i>are</i> fucked up. The point of the matter, though, is that those things are okay, and those things don’t stop you from finding happiness.</p><p>“I’ll say that you don’t need to thank me.” He pauses, breath shaking out. “And I’m <i>more than</i> okay with you.”</p><p>Mickey makes that involuntary gasping sound again, like his breath’s caught in his throat. </p><p>He’s frozen there for a moment, watching Ian with shining eyes, and then, as if talking himself into a certain state of mind, <i>chh</i>s and rolls over to face the other direction.</p><p>“Night, A-list,” he says, pulling the covers up over his shoulder.</p><p>And Ian doesn’t know why, but something about that moment, that <i>action</i> gives him the strongest thought of <i>oh no you don’t</i>.</p><p>Still, despite the confidence of his thoughts, he thinks his body might be slowly turning to liquid for the amount he jitters with nerves as he scoots closer and closer, closing that one-foot gap between them and wrapping his arm around Mickey’s waist, his hand resting flat against his belly.</p><p>He waits. Nobody moves. Ian feels the tiny stutters of Mickey’s breaths shake beneath his palm.</p><p>Finally, after what feels like an hour, Mickey’s hand touches his. Ian links their fingers together.</p><p>And there they are, finally, spooning in bed and holding hands, Ian’s mouth an inch away from the nape of Mickey’s neck, their heads sharing a pillow.</p><p>They lie like that for a few minutes, taking it in. Getting used to it. Both of them experiencing a first that makes their bellies warm, their hearts pound.</p><p>Mickey sighs, and Ian relaxes into him. Kisses the back of his neck because he can, he thinks. He thinks he can do this.</p><p>“This is really gay,” Mickey comments, and Ian snorts into his shoulder. Has an idea. He lifts up, just enough that his face is hovering over the side of Mickey’s, and plants a kiss on his cheek that’s obnoxiously loud in the silence of the room.</p><p>Mickey groans, and Ian chuckles as he lies back down, snuggling back into their original position.</p><p>“That was even gayer, huh?” Ian asks, and Mickey squeezes their fingers together tightly enough that it’s almost painful.</p><p>---<br/>
---</p><p>Mickey’s alarm goes off at six, and the two of them complain into their pillows. They’d separated a bit in the middle of the night, gravitating apart but not by much, their bodies still snuggling together though the traditional spooning position has been accidentally abandoned.</p><p>They’re on their backs, and Mickey’s head is sort of in Ian’s armpit and Ian’s left leg is thrown over Mickey’s right.</p><p>“You’re sweaty,” Mickey comments, voice sleep-rough. He makes no move to scoot away.</p><p>“<i>You’re</i> sweaty,” Ian shoots back at him.</p><p>Mickey sighs, and they just lie together like that for several minutes, dozing while they wait for the nine-minutes of snooze to be up.</p><p>When the alarm sounds again, Mickey turns it off. Stretches. Ian watches him blearily, taking in his sleep-rumpled form--the form of the man who was cuddled up to him all night.</p><p><i>God</i>, he wants him. He cares for him.</p><p>He blows out a breath and sits up before he says or does something he’s afraid he’ll regret.</p><p>---</p><p>They get dressed, both forgoing showers due to the earliness at which they need to be at their destinations.</p><p>Their time together’s winding down. It feels like a loss, and Ian’s throat goes tight when he thinks about Mickey heading back to LA and him heading back to his deadend job, the two of them only meeting up once a month to exist together in a hotel room for two days before doing it all over again.</p><p>It’s <i>untenable</i>. It makes Ian’s stomach hurt.</p><p><i>My advice? Don’t let it get too serious</i>, Lip had said. Well, too fucking late, Lip. Too fucking late.</p><p>They’re obviously going to take the elevator down together. They’ll take it down, turn in their key cards, stand out front and wait for their Ubers.</p><p>They’ve still got a few minutes here, just them. Ian and Mickey revolve around each other, wandering about, packing random items, tying their shoes.</p><p>“Should probably go,” Mickey says, scratching his jaw.</p><p>It occurs to Ian then that he’s just as reluctant to leave. And it’s in that moment that Ian knows he can do it. It’s all he can think about.</p><p>He sets down his duffel and walks up to Mickey, moving close, so close. So close their breath mingles in the space between them.</p><p>He’s a fraction of a second away from putting his arms around him when Mickey does it first.</p><p>Arms come around Ian’s shoulders--grip, grasp, lock together behind him. All Ian has to do is close his eyes and open his own arms and wrap Mickey up inside them.</p><p>It’s a warm hug, and it’s all-consuming. Ian feels them breathe together, their chests rising and falling in tandem. He rests his chin on Mickey’s head, smelling the green tea hotel shampoo from yesterday morning and feeling nothing but warmth down to his toes.</p><p>He squeezes. Mickey squeezes back, buries his face in Ian’s neck.</p><p>“Hey,” Mickey whispers, and Ian has to pull back a little to hear.</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>Mickey sighs, shaky like he’s nervous. “Come to LA.”</p><p>“What?” Ian’s heart pounds so loudly he’s not sure he heard Mickey properly.</p><p>“Not like <i>now</i>, y’know. But. Next month, or. Whenever. Just come.”</p><p>They pull out of the hug, and it’s natural though Ian wishes he could go back in so he can hide the redness of his face.</p><p>“To record with you?” he asks, and it’s stupid, he knows, but it’s the first thing that comes to mind.</p><p>Mickey bites his lip. “If you want, but.” He shrugs. “We don’t <i>have</i> to. We can just hang out or whatever.”</p><p>“My birthday’s next month.”</p><p>“Cool. So come to LA for your birthday.”</p><p>A grin breaks out on Ian’s face. He can’t help it. He can’t help it at all because Mickey just invited him to LA for his birthday, and he doesn’t think he’s ever been happier in all his life.</p><p>“Okay,” he says, and his voice is so soft and young that it almost embarrasses him. He’s giddy like a dumb kid.</p><p>But all Mickey does is smile back at him and nod his head.</p><p>He pats Ian’s chest and then steps back to grab his bag. Ian does the same, feeling like he’s positively floating.</p><p>Together, they head down to reception, turn in their key cards, then move out the doors to the curb where they order Ubers and wait for them to arrive.</p><p>It’s exactly as Ian had anticipated and precisely as uneventful. The two of them talk casually until Ian’s ride shows up, and then they say goodbye.</p><p>“Tell Mo I miss her,” Ian says before he gets in the car, idling as much as he can by Mickey, who’s playing with the strap of his overnight bag and staring at his shoes.</p><p>Mickey laughs breathily and rolls his eyes. “Sure. I’ll be glad to let your little girlfriend know you miss her.”</p><p>“Shut up.” Ian shoves him playfully and turns toward the car. “Bye.”</p><p>“See ya.”</p><p>He climbs in, and he shuts the door.</p><p>After confirming with the driver where he’s headed, he blows out a breath and pulls his phone from his pocket. Mickey’s still out on the sidewalk, and Ian could easily roll down the window and tell him this if he wanted to.</p><p>He doesn’t want to. He wants to text it.</p><p>Texting’s easier, sure. But mostly he just wants Mickey’s reaction in writing, and he wants to be able to look at it every day for the next month until he sees him again.</p><p>He types out a message and, before he can change his mind, taps send.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (7:03 AM):</b> You don’t have to be jealous. I already miss you too. </p><p>------------------------</p><p>He steels himself and well, what the hell. Sends another.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Ian (7:03 AM):</b> But you know what they say about absence. Prepare to get a fond heart. 😎</p><p>------------------------</p><p>The car takes off then, and Ian has to crane his neck toward the back window in order to see Mickey’s reaction when he receives the text.</p><p>Back on the sidewalk, Mickey pulls his phone from his pocket and looks down at it for a long moment--for much longer than it would take for him to read the texts.</p><p>He grows tiny and tinier and tinier as the car continues down the street, and Ian can’t really see the expression on his face, but he wants to think that he’s smiling.</p><p><i>He’s</i> smiling. He turns back around to face the front and picks back up his phone. Watches the dots dance and dance and dance.</p><p>And finally, when he almost gives up for the moment, almost locks his phone and shoves it back in his pocket, a text comes in that stops his heart and leaves him breathless.</p><p>------------------------</p><p><b>Mickey (7:06 AM):</b> too late</p><p>------------------------</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>😲😲😲</p><p>Fun facts about Chapter 9:<br/>-Title comes from "Boys Don't Cry" by The Cure</p><p>-Fanart! I am completely blow away by art I received based on Chapter 8. You all are so incredibly amazing, and I cannot thank you enough for the time and effort that has gone into creating something for my work. Sending you a million thank yous and all the love in my heart.</p><p><a href="https://figallagher.tumblr.com/post/648310346808016896/cooperative-gameplay-by-gallavichy">Mickey's Instagram photos</a> by <b>figallagher</b><br/><a href="https://apothecrowley.tumblr.com/post/648749208703238144">iang orange and mick milk cartons</a> by <b>apothecrowley</b><br/><a href="https://grumpymickmilk.tumblr.com/post/649392256947830784">Ian and Mickey in front of the Hollywood sign</a> by <b>grumpymickmilk</b><br/><a href="https://amid-fandoms.tumblr.com/post/649461225854533632/cooperative-gameplay-traileredit-for-gray-i">CG trailer/edit!!!!!!!!</a> by <b>amid-fandoms</b><br/><a href="https://amid-fandoms.tumblr.com/post/649445976495505408/manip-pieces-from-my-upcoming-trailer-for">...and some of the incredible art that went with it</a><br/><a href="https://kelsiel1990.tumblr.com/post/649852230641549312/i-made-a-thing-for-cooperative-gameplay-by-the">Ian and Mickey recording in Mickey's gaming room</a> by <b>kelsiel1990</b><br/><a href="https://gallavichobsessed101.tumblr.com/post/648478975856967680">Ian and Mickey in front of the Hollywood sign</a> by <b>gallavichobsessed101</b><br/><a href="https://chicagolovestory.tumblr.com/post/649994629903777792">Mickey with the Mickey Star</a> by <b>chicagolovestory</b><br/><a href="https://1trueanthony.tumblr.com/post/650583235678568448">AMAZING book cover edits</a> by <b>1trueanthony</b></p><p>If I left any art out, please let me know! I have a feeling I am. It was unintentional, and it's because I failed to tag it properly on my blog. I really want to make sure everything's accounted for!</p><p>💖💞💗💓💝💕💋</p><p>-I know you still have questions. I know there are gaps in Mickey's past that need to be filled. They will be in time.</p><p>-The FaceTime sessions between Ian and Mickey here, including the way they think of and [don't] agonize over them, are significantly different from in LRPD/EAY, the two of them FaceTiming with much more casualness and ease. In contrast, it probably seems a little underwhelming, but CG Ian/Mickey are zoomers whereas LRPD Ian/Mickey are millennials, and I feel like FaceTime is a very different animal for the Gen-Z crowd.</p><p>-Logically, this is definitely a trip to Chicago Mo should've been on. The only reason she isn't there is because I literally didn't know what to do with her, wanting the Terry thing to be between Ian and Mickey only.</p><p>-Thank you so much to folks on Tumblr for giving me ideas for the fan usernames! I couldn't use them all this time, but there's plenty of opportunity to use them later. If you would like to contribute, the post is <a href="https://gallavichy.tumblr.com/post/650287894932619264/hey-everyone-anybody-wanna-help-me-out-if-so-i">here</a>.</p><p>-Happy birthday, Ian Gallagher. The world will never know (at least until Chapter 10 drops) how annoyed I am that I'm not a chapter ahead of where I am now.</p><p>-Finally, Happy Mother's Day in the US, moms and mother figures out there! ✨💛</p><p>Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed!</p><p>💖 Gray</p>
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